


Come Back to Me

by LadyLuthien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, My First Smut, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuthien/pseuds/LadyLuthien
Summary: Danarius overpowers Hawke & Co, recapturing Fenris. But there's no way Hawke will let Fenris go back to a life of slavery, even if he doesn't love her anymore - which, after three years, how could he? For his part, back in his master's clutches, Fenris quickly loses hope that anyone will come for him. It would be no surprise if, after three years, Hawke despised him for leaving.Angst, pain, fluff, and eventual smut - because there's nothing better than hard-won gooeyness. My first long (about 20k) work - already (mostly) finished, I just have to have the discipline to edit and post regularly. Purple!Hawke, more or less. Content warnings are erring on the safe side; I'll mark chapters that have smut or violence, and there's really only one brief reference to non-con because that's not my thing even if it makes sense plot-wise.





	1. I.

When Hawke awoke, it was dark and smelled like fish. She lay there, stock still, assessing her body.  _ Maker, it hurt _ . Slowly, she became aware of a stocky form crouched next to her, breathing deeply. Varric. The memories came rushing back through her pounding skull, and she tensed suddenly, one hand reaching out for him. 

He put a hand on her shoulder, peering out through the crack that let light into what appeared to be a cramped, filthy hiding space behind a pile of crates. Probably the Docks, based on the smell.  “Stay still, pet,” he whispered. “I don’t know that the last of them are gone yet.”

“The last of -” Hawke hissed,“Varric, what happened to Fenris?” She closed her eyes, memories dancing behind the closed lids. The slender elf woman, a bearded man descending the stairs -  _ Danarius - _ then fighting, but he’d brought more soldiers than they could handle, and a bolt of energy had cracked across her skull -

“He’s gone, Hawke.” Varric turned to look at her, his rugged profile outlined in the faint light seeping into their hiding place. “Right after Danarius got you, one of his bloody henchmen clapped a collar on him and he went all limp and, well, not glowy. Isabela distracted them while I got you out of there - she split too, I don’t know where. I was trying to get you to Anders, but, no offense Hawke, you’re really heavy when you want to be, and then I saw another band of slavers and I figured it was better safe than sorry.”

Hawke sat up slowly, rage mingling with the merciless pounding of her headache.  _ Fenris _ ... The lithe elf had fought by her side for seven years now, always on the run, and she had always promised that she would be there to fight beside him when the time came for him to confront Danarius. And she had failed him in that. Fenris, who trusted so rarely. She wondered if he hated her now, wherever he was - probably in the belly of some slave ship. Her stomach twisted at the thought of his finely boned wrists in manacles. Taking a deep, shaking breath, she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. She knew he didn’t love her - three years since their one night together was long enough to convince her of that - but she would be damned if she would leave him like that. 

“We’re going after him,” she said, voice rough. “This crew does not leave anyone behind.”

Varric looked off, squinting toward the outside world. “I knew you’d say that, pet.”

 

Isabela was waiting at the Blooming Rose when they stumbled in, Hawke having mumbled a few quick healing spells to get herself there. For once, there was no-one on her lap, and only one mug of ale on the bar. “There you are. You two look a right sight.” Any onlooker would have thought she was merely amused, but Hawke had known her long enough to detect the slight hint of concern. “That Danarius is a right bastard, isn’t he?”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Varric quipped, hoisting himself onto the barstool next to her. “Where did he take Fenris?”

“Out the back of the Hanged Man. I figured it wasn’t prudent to meet there, so I came here. I suppose,” she shrugged, “you found me alright.”

“We did,” Hawke said. “Did you see where they took him after that?”

“My guess is to the docks.” Isabela took a deep drag of her ale. “Slaving  _ is _ illegal in Kirkwall. Even Danarius would have to move quickly to not get caught by one of Avvie’s overzealous guardsmen.” 

Varric shook his head. “We ended up holed up by the docks for a while. If they had come by, I would have seen them, even if Sleeping Beauty was still unconscious.”

“Sleeping Beauty will have no comments from you, unless they are softened by ale,” Hawke said dryly, and Varric chuckled and summoned a bare-breasted barmaid to oblige. Hawke took a deep gulp, trying to lessen the pounding in her head. “We need to check, anyway. If they’re still in the city, maybe we can stop them.” 

“Hawke, you’re practically green.” No humor veiled Isabela’s concern now. “You know magical healing can only do so much, and that was a doozy of a spell Danarius threw at you. Maker, even I could tell that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hawke mumbled into her flagon, and Varric sighed. 

“Fine,” he said, slapping a few coins onto the bar. “I’ll walk you home for a rest, and Isabela can scout the docks. We all know she has a few friends there.”

“I don’t know about friends,” Isabela murmured into her pint. “More like bedwarmers, but they are chatty.”

“Stop it, Isabela,” Hawke warned, grumpier than usual. “This is serious.”

“Danarius isn’t going to kill him, he’s too valuable,” Isabela said, grumbling, but drained her glass anyway. “You’re closing my tab, O champion, my champion.” With a sensuous movement, she set her pint back on the bar and walked out of the brothel, hips moving delightfully. Hawke’s head hurt too much for even voyeuristic pleasure, but that didn’t mean she had gone blind.

“Looking for company?” A lilting voice inquired, and she raised her head to see that a curvy human woman with long braids had lodged herself between Hawke and Varric. The gown she was wearing was much too sheer. “I’ll admit your friend is a fine piece, but I dare say I can take her place.” One soft, plump hand brushed Hawke’s, and she flinched away.

“I’m not in the market,” she said curtly, and the whore shrugged. 

“Suit yourself, but it’s an odd place for a pint,” she said, all traces of seduction gone, and moved off to accost a new patron. Varric raised an eyebrow.

“She’s right, you know. We should get you home.”

Hawke nodded and drank the last of her beer. Neither of them spoke of the fear that their friend was already beyond their reach.


	2. II.

When Hawke awoke, there was a mug of something hot and sweet-smelling on her nightstand and a note in Bodahn’s clumsy handwriting.  _ Isabela waiting downstairs. Drink what’s in this mug before you come down. _

Hawke stumbled upright and nearly vomited immediately from the magical hangover pounding through her head. Belatedly, she remembered the second half of the note and, fumbling for the mug, downed it in one. It was sweet, but not in the good way, and she nearly retched before the fog of pain cleared from her head and all that was left was a nasty taste in her mouth. Stumbling to her washbasin, she filled a pewter cup from her water jug and drank it, then hastily donned her robes. The soft silk swished around her ankles, the sigils embroidered into the hems and seams coming deliciously alive with magic as they touched her skin. Calfskin boots next, these engraved with runes, then her wristlets, laced up the inside. Her hood she tied around her shoulders, but left down. Strapping on her belt of potions and components, she appraised herself in the mirror. Her brown eyes were puffy from the spell still, and she was once again grateful that Mother had let her wear her hair shaved after a rogue fireball had singed it half off as a child. The bedhead that had come from long hair would have truly completed the look. As it was, she looked tired but not disastrous.

Slinging her staff over her back, she went downstairs, greeted by a happy bark from her dog and a “Maker,  _ there  _ you are!” from Isabela.

“How long have I been asleep?” Hawke asked, looking out the window at the darkness outside. Absently, she scratched the Mabari’s ruff, and was rewarded with happy panting.

“Full fourteen hours. It’s just before dawn.” Isabela stopped pacing and looked her up and down, hands on hips. “I found where our pretty friend went. Apparently Danarius took him directly to his ship, a little two-sailed thing. Wicked fast, or so Mikken tells me, if rubbish on the open seas.”

“Did this Mikken see him? Was he harmed?” Hawke felt light-headed again, but not from the healing.

“Caught a glimpse. He said they were carrying him, still in that collar thing. I think he was unconscious.” Isabela sighed. “He may be a broody fellow, but I’d hate to see any real harm come to him.”

_ Me too.  _ “Isabela?”

“Yes?”

“We’re buying a ship. If you’ll captain it and find us a crew, it’s yours. After we find Fenris and bring him home safe.” She saw the avarice in the other woman’s eyes, and capitalized on it. “I trust you to find me the best bargain.” Behind her, Bodahn made a choking noise.

“Of course, Hawke.” Isabela bowed mockingly. “What would they say if the Champion abandoned her lover, after all?”

“Not my lover,” Hawke said automatically, like she always did to the teasing, but this time there was a knot in her stomach that tightened at the words. The prospect of never touching Fenris again was a lot more bearable when he was still by her side, able to be coaxed into a half-smile or even sometimes a full-throated laugh. She had not realized how much she had come to rely on him, even as she tried relentlessly to bury her feelings.

“Of course.” Isabela grinned, not sensing the depths of her distress, and gave the mabari one last scratch. “Give me two days to find something.”

“Something good?” Hawke asked doubtfully.  Bodahn was still protesting wordlessly behind her, but she did not care. What was the point of being noble if you couldn’t spend rashly?

“Don’t underestimate me.” Isabela waved a beringed finger and disappeared out the front door, leaving Hawke alone in the sitting room. A shuffle behind her startled her, and a hand went to her staff before Orana peered around the doorjamb. 

“Did I hear that correctly, mistress?” She asked, timid still after three years of freedom and gainful employment. “Master Fenris is in trouble?”

Hawke nodded. “We’ll find him though.”

“Yes, mistress.” Orana looked at the floor, then back up at Hawke. “I hope you do, mistress. I like him.”

“Me too,” Hawke said, gazing at the door. 

 

It took Isabela three days, not two, and Hawke was about to burst with impatience. The ship in question, however, was beautiful; three masts and sturdy, if in need of serious cosmetic work. The paint was not yet peeling, but it was beginning to bubble, and the color scheme hurt even Hawke’s sensibilities. Nonetheless, Isabela seemed more alive than Hawke had ever seen her, dashing from deck to deck giving orders to a motley band of sailors. Varric, however, looked pensive.

“Hey Captain,” he said eventually, looking around the ship. “Isn’t this ship a little large?”

“Not for sailing to Tevinter,” Isabela called from her place on the poopdeck. “We’ll need a big ship.”

“But didn’t your buddy say that Danarius was in a small ship? Two sails?”

Isabela stopped and turned, suddenly serious, and Hawke inhaled sharply as she worked out what Varric was saying.

“He’s not going to Tevinter immediately,” she said softly. “He’s going somewhere close.”

“Where, though,” Varric muttered, stroking his chin as if absentmindedly grooming the beard he did not have.

“My bet,” Hawke said, straightening her back and looking out across the bay to where the cliffs rose in the distance, “is the old slave caves.” She took a deep breath and looked around. “Isabela, keep the ship in top order in case we need to leave on short notice. Varric, you and I will go check them out.”

“Backup would be wise,” Varric said. “Anders?”

“Anders hates Fenris,” Hawke said, somewhat bitterly. It irked her that even after all this time, she couldn’t get the two to coexist in anything more than an easy rivalry. With occasional screaming. “Let’s see if Merrill is home.”

“Both of them are actually on their way here,” Isabela sang out as she scaled the mast with easy practice, a coil of rope around one shoulder. “I figured we’d need all the help we could get. Aveline can’t leave her post, but two apostates? No problem.”

Hawke could not argue with that, and thankfully the two mages appeared within the hour, one after the other.

“Is Fenris okay?” Merrill asked immediately, her accented voice full of concern. Hawke shook her head and briefly outlined the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Fenris stuff is coming next chapter~


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: emotional abuse, torture

“Is this really a good plan?” Anders asked as they stood before the dark entrance to the cave.

“We’re not leaving him,” Hawke said firmly, grip tightening on her staff. 

“He’d abandon a mage. Why shouldn’t we do the same for him?”

“He wouldn’t. Not a friend, at least.”

“You mean not you.” 

Hawke twisted around to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Alright, you two. Are we going to rescue Broody or not?” Varric hiked up his pack, which jingled suspiciously as usual.

Hawke took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll take point. Merrill, you cover our rear, and Anders and Varric, you’re in the middle.” Steeling herself, she conjured a tiny light and stepped into the cave.

 

Fenris awoke with a jerk, lyrium ablaze and scrambling for a sword that was not there. Cold air raked over his back and he realized he was naked except for his smallclothes. Chains clinked at his sudden movement, and he froze as a soft laugh came from behind him. 

“Hello, little wolf,” a familiar voice purred. “Not still anxious to bite?”

Fenris scrambled to his feet, looking around. He was in a holding pen, that much was obvious - torches lit the walls around him. He recognized this place, and his face contorted unconsciously.

“Yes, little wolf. You killed Hadriana here. I was most cross with you when I learned, do you know that? She was promising. And so devoted. You used to be too.”

Fenris said nothing, mind working furiously. He was chained and hobbled, unable to move faster than a shuffle. The chains were affixed to a massive loop in the middle of the cell, not long enough for him to reach the bars. A collar was fixed around his neck as well, and when he tried to flare his lyrium beyond a faint light, nothing happened. 

“So.” His master -  _ no, his name is Danarius, I am a free man now _ \- leaned back in the chair that had been placed just outside his cell. “Do you have an apology to make?”

“I have nothing to apologize for,” Fenris hissed, almost choking on the words in rage. He let the black hate consume him. It was stronger than his fear. “Not to you. Never to you.” 

“A pity.” Danarius rose, picking up the staff from where it leaned on the back of his chair. “You used to have such courtesy. What happened, little wolf?”

“You happened. You took everything away from me. I’ve been taking it back.” Fenris’ lyrium pulsed a fraction at the force of his anger, despite the dampening collar.

“Took everything away from you?” Danarius chuckled, raising the staff. “I made you, little wolf. You hardly exist without me.”

Fenris took a step forward, stomach turning at the sound of his chains. “I have a life without you,” he said, trying to keep the fear that was rising in his stomach out of his voice. “I have - friends.” The words stuck in his throat, but he held onto the thought of their faces, garrulous Varric and flirtatious Isabela, and the dearest of them all,  _ her - _

“Friends?” Danarius spoke a word and pure energy arced out of his staff, wrapping around Fenris as he screamed despite himself. Time froze for a second as he lashed in agony, before his feet tangled in his chains and he fell hard against the stone floor. The magic dissipated, and Fenris was left gasping, conscious of the bitter taste of blood in his mouth.

“I suppose you mean the friends who let me steal you away?” The voice was gentle, mocking. “They never did know how to handle you, I’m sure. You ruined yourself so thoroughly by running away. Useful, I’m sure, especially to that bald girl. But you thought they actually liked you?”

“I know that they do,” Fenris mumbled through a mouthful of blood and grit. He pushed himself off the floor, refusing to show weakness even as his split lip sent blood running down his chin. 

“Do?” Danarius asked with a chuckle. “You think I left them alive?”

Fenris had been considering just that, but he shook his head defiantly anyway. “No. You wouldn’t be able to kill Hawke.”

“Then why isn’t she here to rescue you? If she’s so devoted.” Danarius rested the butt of his staff on the floor, suddenly seeming bored. “You’re right, though. They’re not dead. They didn’t even try to stop me taking you once I rescued you. They ran.”

“That’s not true,” Fenris started -  _ Hawke was fighting, I remember it, her magic smells like ash and cinnamon and nothing of this world _ \- but Danarius raised the staff threateningly and he fell silent instinctually, hating himself for it.

“Some friends you have, little wolf. And you’d really pick them over your loving master? At least  _ I  _ always came back for you.” Taking the torch from the wall sconce, he disappeared down the hall, leaving Fenris in complete darkness except for the pulsing of his lyrium.

Helpless, he let out a yell of frustration into the dark.  _ Hawke wouldn’t abandon me. Hawke doesn’t abandon anyone. _ He thought of her insistence on saving a mage boy who had very nearly made a deal with a demon, the spark in her eyes when he dared to cross her. Later, she had come to him, at the dilapidated mansion he called home.

“I understand why you don’t like my decision,” she had said. “But punishing people for something they haven’t done yet - that’s just wrong.”

“He had done something,” he had replied, still sullen.

“A little mistake. Most mages go through something similar. That doesn’t mean I’ll give up on them.” She had looked at him, then, candlelight illuminating her copper skin. “Or you.” 

She had risen and left before he could think of anything to say to that, but he held onto the memory as he laid back down on the cold floor, trying to quell the fear that raged inside him like a caged beast.  _ She will come for me. _

  
Thirty feet into the tunnel, they encountered the cave-in. It was substantial, and Varric’s semi-expert assessment revealed that it was both recent and caused by magic. Hawke’s variety and intensity of swearing at the pronouncement made Merrill blush to the tips of her pointed ears. Varric left to go research if the caverns had any other accessible entrances, while the three mages began the slow, tedious process of freezing and thawing the rocks, loosening the cave-in from a safe distance before hauling out chunks of stone. Well into the night they labored, taking turns to catch a bit of sleep.


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More abuse/torture and a brief reference to non-con having occurred.

Fenris didn’t know how long he was in the cage. There was no way to measure the passing of time, just darkness and stale air. He slept intermittently, the pressing need for water growing stronger, eating away at his throat. When the torch returned, he felt a spike of relief before the hatred crushed it out again.

“How are you doing, little wolf?” His master asked, striding confidently to take a seat at the same chair. 

Fenris remained silent, standing as tall as he could muster. He would not let his master -  _ Danarius _ , he thought furiously,  _ not my master _ \- see his weakness. 

“Would you like a drink of water?” Danarius asked, and Fenris’ head jerked up despite himself. Danarius chuckled. “I see you would. And probably some food.”

“I want nothing from you,” Fenris forced out. His throat was very dry, and he swallowed roughly. Danarius shook his head.

“That won’t do,” he said calmly. “Do you plan to die down here? Surely you know you can’t get out of here. My little wolf is no fool.”

“My friends will come for me.” He ignored the creeping fear that he had already been down here too long, that they wouldn’t be able to find him, or worse, that they didn’t want to.

“You think they love you more than me?” Danarius said, softly, but with teeth behind the words. Fenris’ stomach twisted in fear, but he made himself speak.

“You never loved me. You wanted me.” He took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “It’s not the same.”

“Tsk, little wolf,” and then there was pain again, worse than before, which left him crumpled on the floor, inhaling in deep, shuddering breaths. His throat was raw with screaming he did not remember, and pushing himself into a seated position took all the strength he had left.

Danarius stood over him, very close to the cage bars. “You have no friends. You have only ever had me. And you wanted me too, don’t forget. I made you beg for the privilege of touching me.” His voice turned calm, reasonable. “I don’t want to hurt you, little wolf. I want to help you.”

Fenris lunged for him, an animalistic noise low in his throat, but the chain caught his arm mid-swing and he jerked back. Danarius raised an eyebrow, unfazed. 

“Please stop making me hurt you, little wolf,” he said, and Fenris detected a note of genuine hurt in his voice that shocked him even through the haze of pain that still surrounded him. “You are the finest thing I’ve ever made.” 

 

Varric returned in the dawn light, bringing a sack of hot pasties from the Kirkwall markets. Hawke accepted one eagerly, nauseous from the continued magic use and lack of sleep. “What did you find?” She asked around a mouthful of pastry and meat.

“The only other entrance is a seaside one. That’s probably where Danarius is docked. I sent Isabela to keep watch from around the cove. We’ll know if he leaves.”

“Can we get in there?” Hawke asked, hope springing into her voice.

“Not without a ship and the power of invisibility.” Varric shook his head. “The cave itself is hard to spot, but it has a view of the whole sodding bay, and it’s set into the cliffs. There’s no way down those.”

Hawke sighed and stretched her arms above her head, squinting her eyes against the rising sun. “Then we keep working.”

“It’s not like they’re going to kill him, right Hawke?” Merrill asked, tiredness in her voice. “I mean, he’s only valuable alive.”

“They need him subservient, broken. I need him -  _ him. _ ” Hawke felt a wave of anger rise over her and used it to fuel yet another blast of ice onto the rocks. Swirling her staff into the next position, she sent a fireball hurtling down the tunnel to re-melt the barrier, and was rewarded with the crumbling groan of loose debris. “It’s already been five days. Who knows what kind of blood magic Danarius has already worked.”

 

The next time his master came for him, he was bearing a small saucer of water, which he sent gliding into the cell with the gentlest brush of magic. Fenris wrestled with his pride for only a second before pouncing on it and lapping the water out, swallowing it in desperate gulps. He was aware of the spectacle he made, drinking like an animal, and part of him hated it - it seemed his master did not need blood magic to demean him. The other part felt only relief. 

“Would you like some food as well, little wolf?” His master asked, standing by the chair, and Fenris looked up from his hunched pose, suddenly suspicious, but his master only laughed. “It’s not poisoned, don’t worry. I just can’t have my pride and joy starving to death.”

“I don’t...want anything from you.” Fenris forced the words out.

“You seemed to want that water well enough.” Venom tinged his master’s words. “I can take it back if you don’t.” He spoke a word, and Fenris felt his stomach twist involuntarily as magic wrenched at his innards. Mute, he shook his head.

“Very well. It seems you do need me, little wolf.” With that, his master departed, taking the light with him. Fenris was left in the dark. He pulled his knees up to his chest to try and keep warm, and closed his eyes.  _ Varric. Isabela. Aveline. Merrill, even. Anders? No, not Anders, don’t get above yourself. Hawke. Hawke. Hawke. _ He let his lips move as he thought their names, a quiet litany of friends from a world so far away. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Fen. I promise I patch him up later.


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for torture/violence/hopeless angst.

It got to the point where Fenris no longer knew if Danarius would come bringing water or pain, and the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the cold air of the cave was his only certainty. He relieved himself in a hole just barely within the reach of the chains, but the stench still lingered. There was no pride, no resistance, just survival and the lingering, shameful hope that his friends were on the way, that they would rescue him.

_ It has to have been days now. Surely they could have tracked me.  _ He frowned, rubbing where his manacles were chafing skin unused to their touch.  _ They’ve been here. Hawke, Varric, and Merrill at least. They know this route. _ Doubt clamped down on his stomach like a vise.  _ Maybe my master is right. Maybe they won’t come for me. _ He thought of all the times he had slighted them, of turning on them in the Fade, of his biting comments to Merrill and Anders, and a sigh escaped him.

_ And Hawke. _

Hawke, whose looks at him had grown ever more lingering and bold until, encouraged, he had shown up at her house, had asked her, as honestly as he could, how she felt. Hawke, soft in his arms and crackling with power, one brief night that had overwhelmed him until he ran, and never looked back. He remembered the hurt that had been bright in her eyes for the next few weeks, and the slow rebuilding of friendship.  _ She’s my friend now, though. She understood. _

A conversation with Orana swam into his mind, sitting in Hawke’s courtyard. “I hope you come here more often,” the elf-maid had said kindly, laying a hand on his arm. “I like it when you’re here.” A smile, then, significantly, “ _ she _ does too.” 

At the time, he had thought nothing of it; of course Hawke didn’t still want him in that way, that would be ridiculous. He knew he had spoiled that chance long ago, with his cursed fear. Friendship was enough. Being in her enticing presence, electrified by her courage, and Maker, but she could make him laugh like nobody else. That was enough. Unless it wasn’t enough for her.

Certainty flooded him, and slowly, he lowered his head onto his knees and clamped his eyes shut against the encroaching darkness.  _ Of course she remembers. She won’t come for me because I slighted her, because I hurt her, and who can blame her? I rejected her, of course she’ll reject me. _

When his master next came, it was with a slice of bread drenched in gravy, and he ate ravenously. When asked for thanks, he gave it obediently.

 

“Varric, are you sure you don’t know how twice-blasted sodding thick this barrier is?” Hawke asked impatiently, wiping cold sweat from her brow. They had been at work for a day and a half, which meant that it had been almost a week since Fenris’ kidnapping, and she was beginning to feel doubt needle at her. It made her angry.

“I told you, pet, it’s magical. There’s no way to tell.” Varric looked grey with worry too. “We’ll find him, though. We know he’s in here, Isabela said that she’s sure it’s the right boat tethered up at the dock.”

“What if they transferred him to another boat? He could be halfway to Tevinter by now.” Hawke knew she shouldn’t take her anger out on the reasonable dwarf, but she was too tired to care. 

“She has seen another ship on the horizon once or twice, but she also thinks she’s seen people going in and out of this port. Tevinter guards. She can’t get close even in a rowboat, but they wouldn’t be guarding an unused cave. Or have made this barrier such a pain in the sodding ass.” 

Hawke nodded, her vitriol defeated. “Shit.” She took a sip from the flask of liquid lyrium at her belt and went back to pounding at the barrier. But that evening, she was taking a breather and gulping down some soup when a yell came from behind her. Broth went everywhere as she leaped up and sprinted for the cave entrance to see a dark opening visible in the barricade. Hope choked her as she threw herself at the hole and began widening it with all her might.

 

Once his master was convinced Fenris was loyal to him again, the beatings started in earnest. Punishment for his escape, for his crimes while on the run, for fighting when he was being retaken. Each crime was intoned into him slowly as his master stood outside the cell, wrapped in a spiralling blanket of magic that sent glancing arms out, sometimes cutting him, sometimes simply sending jolting arcs of energy through his bones until he cried out in pain. He no longer knew any sense of time. 

Once, his master actually entered the cage with him. Fenris had been trying to sleep, curled up on the floor, and the sound of footsteps made him jerk upright. But his master only smiled at him, stroking a hand through his hair, now matted with his long imprisonment.

“You are a beautiful creation, little wolf,” he said softly. “One day soon, I will let you show me just how beautiful.”

Fenris’ stomach twisted, but he bowed his head obediently. His master left, the same way he had come, and Fenris laid back down, closing his eyes tightly. The persistent ache of the lyrium made it hard to sleep, but he had practice at ignoring it. Not so easy to ignore was the memory of soft brown eyes asking him to stay, of warm firelight playing over a body that was not his master’s. 

_ Don’t think about it. Hope is a poison. _ He pulled his knees to his chest and forced the memory out of his mind.  _ This is what you have now. Survive. _


	6. VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for effects of torture and canon-typical violence.

It didn’t take long to widen the hole enough that they could pass through. Hawke led, soft boots making almost no sound on the floor. The small light she conjured barely lit the twists and turns of the passage, but Hawke was reluctant to make it any larger. She subsisted on what she could make out and her memory of this place, years ago. When they came to a door she recognized, she listened carefully at the jamb for a moment, then flung it open. The two guards inside were quickly dispatched, one by the blade at the end of her staff and one by a  _ thunk _ from Varric’s crossbow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, exhaustion was nagging at her. She had used too much magic in the past few days, and lyrium was no longer effective at compensating. She pushed aside the thought of meeting Danarius again like this. 

“Look, pet,” Varric whispered to her as they stalked down the empty hall. “I know you care for Broody, but I want to make sure you don’t do anything, well, rash.”

“I’m never rash,” she said, straight-faced, and he laughed.

“Seriously, though. I need to know how dumb you’ll be for that elf.” Varric looked at her. “Are you involved with him or is it just moon-eyes when you think he’s not looking?”

Hawke’s jaw clenched. “We are not involved.”

“And the look in your eyes tells me all I need to know.” Varric shrugged and positioned himself by the next door. “Just try not to get killed in his honor.”

Hawke refused to dignify that with a response, preferring instead to rush the door and surprise the guards inside.

 

Fenris woke groggily, returning to his body on the cold stone floor. The dream was slipping away, and drowsily, he grabbed for it. He had been playing cards, maybe, in a room full of light, and Hawke had been leaning on his chair, her breath soft on his neck as she advised him on strategy. A band had been playing outside, a marching band whose drums had shaken the floor, and he had... laughed? A happy dream, then, but just a dream. 

The floor shook again, just slightly, and he heard a faint rumble. Rubbing his eyes and brushing the shaggy hair out of his face, he sat up.

 

“Stealthy?” Varric asked, sardonically, and Merrill covered her face with her hands. At her feet, a corpse had become almost statuesque in its encasement of rock.

“I’m sorry! He was coming for me, and I stoned him out of habit!”

“Worry about it later. We need to move fast.” Hawke turned down a familiar pathway. “There are more cells over here. Anders, Varric, you guard our backs. Keep anything from coming down that hall.”

Anders nodded, the feathers of his jacket sticky with blood. “Be safe.”

“And you,” Hawke said, before turning and dashing down the hall. Two more guards opened the door, apparently alerted by the rumble, and she froze them in a practiced spray of ice. Merrill’s magic laced after hers, and the ice shattered as the bloodstained bodies dropped to the floor. Hawke gingerly stepped over the corpses to see an all too familiar door. Torches sputtered on either side of it.

“This is where Fenris found Hadriana, isn’t it,” Merrill asked timidly.

“Yes,” Hawke said, grimly. 

“Isn’t it a dead end?”

“And guards don’t usually guard a dead end.” She took a steadying breath.

“Ready?” Merrill asked, and Hawke forced a grin.

“Born ready. Let’s go.” With a practiced move, she flung open the door.

 

It was dark inside, and Hawke conjured a light as she moved stealthily across the floor. It shone on a familiar room. Empty cells lined the walls, rusted chains keeping them closed - except one had a new chain, and she heard a sound from within it.

“Fenris!” She gasped, sprinting to the gate and pressing her face against its bars. “Fenris, is that you?”

She saw eyes reflected in the light from her staff, glowing like cat’s eyes, and then she heard a faint inhalation and saw familiar lines of lyrium light up, albeit duller than she had ever seen them glow. Tears pricked at her eyes.

“Fenris, I am so glad you’re okay.”

A silence, then - “...Hawke?”

“Of course it’s me, you - you - you pointy-eared nightlight!” Hawke stretched out a hand and ice grew inside the lock until it popped off the chain and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. The door swung open, and she rushed inside. “I was so worried -” the light from her staff reached his body, and she gasped.

His tan skin was bruised all over, purple marks that seemed to come from inside the skin instead of out. Shallow, half-healed cuts marred every spot devoid of lyrium, like he had fallen through a sheet of glass. But the look in the eyes was what scared her the most. He looked afraid, and worst, he looked afraid of her.

“Fenris?” She said softly, reaching out a hand for him, and he flinched. “Fenris, talk to me. We need to go.”

“He said you wouldn’t come,” Fenris mumbled, dropping his gaze. “He said you had left me.” He drew his knees to his chest in a convulsive movement.

“Merrill, get these things off of him.” Hawke didn’t take her eyes off Fenris, hatred boiling in her for the man who had caused this. “Fenris, you remember me. Have I ever abandoned anyone before?”

Fenris shook his head, still not meeting her gaze. 

“Have I ever made you doubt that I was your friend?”  _ And more,  _ she thought, but this was not the time for that. He shook his head again, shaking a little.

“Do you trust me?” She asked, as calmly as she could manage, and for the first time he looked at her directly. His large green eyes were barely visible in the dark, but she thought she saw wetness in them.

“I confess...” He looked away, bangs hiding his face. “I confess I was starting not to.” Merrill’s magic released the manacles from his arms, and he wrapped them around himself, lowering his head to touch his knees. Hawke became suddenly aware that he was nearly naked.

“Fenris, may I touch you?” She asked, as she had so many times before, ever since the first time she had laid a hand on his shoulder and he had flinched away. 

He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob and one hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, as strong as she remembered. His face was still covered by his hair, and when she reached out with her other hand and stroked it gently, he did not pull away. They stayed that way for a minute. Hawke was nearly dizzy with relief and exhaustion, and the terrifying responsibility that was his trust. Even if she could never have him, if the time for love was past, she could have this.

Merrill appeared out of the darkness, bringing a tunic and leggings. “We, um, killed the guards. I took their clothes, the ones with the least blood on them.” She hesitated, apparently seeing their intimate posture. “Hawke, can I leave these with you?”

“Yes,” Hawke said, looking up. “Thank you.”

“Find me a weapon too,” Fenris told the floor. “Please.”

“Of course.” Merrill vanished back into the darkness, and Fenris began to unfold, slowly, like a crumpled ball of paper. Hawke let her hand drop, the sadness creeping up on her as their touch lessened. She crushed it down instinctively. Too arrogant, and not the time. He needed a friend, not a lovesick fool. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if anything was going to keep Hawke from her Fenris, even "just as friends".


	7. VII.

She had come for him. 

The relief and shame sat like a ball at the base of his throat. She had not abandoned him. She was there, right there, her normally brown skin grey with exhaustion, dust on the hem of her robes and on the sleeves. He could see the strain in her eyes, the tension wrapped up in her brow. He wanted to reach for her, return her caress, relax those tight lines until she smiled the way he loved so much. But this was not the time, not when she had already done so much.

Slowly, he straightened his aching legs and appraised the clothes that Merrill had brought for him. The pants were too big and the tunic did not fasten over his chest. When Hawke stifled a giggle despite herself, he knew he looked truly ridiculous, and the shame bit at him. He looked away from her. 

She rose in a rustle of cloth and came to stand by him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you. It’s been a long day.” She inhaled deeply, and the words came out in a rush. “Oh Fenris, I’m so glad you’re safe.”

That was not what he had expected to hear. He turned to look at her, and the look in her eyes made his breath catch. It was hopeful and compassionate and fierce, all the things he loved about her, and it was directed at him. How could his master’s torture make him forget that look? 

His emotions choked him and he dived for her, wrapping his arms around her wiry frame. She dropped her staff and her hands came up to his back as he buried his head in her shoulder, shaking from emotions too strong and numerous to name. All that mattered was clinging onto her, tightly so that he would never have to be without her again. 

Hawke was stroking his back, mumbling words of comfort into his ear. Hawke was in his arms again, when he was sure he had lost that chance. Hawke had come for him when his master swore that she would not.  _ Danarius. Use the name.  _ Hawke smelled of sweat and spices and blood, and she was here. She was here. She was here.

A sob escaped him involuntarily, and her hands tightened on his back as she held him, if possible, even closer. For a moment he almost softened into her embrace, then angrily, he choked the tears down. He couldn’t burden her with that, and besides, his master -  _ Danarius! _ \- was still here. 

Letting her go hurt worse than even his injuries, but he made himself do it. “Danarius is still here. We need to find him.” His voice was rough, his throat raw. “I’m going to kill him properly this time.”

Hawke nodded, picking up her staff carefully. “Let’s go get the bastard.”

 

His embrace was still sending tingles down her spine as he turned away from her and stepped out of the cage. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she followed him. His lyrium still glowed faintly, making it easy to find him in the dark. Merrill met him at the doorway, and she heard their murmured conversation.

“Fenris! You look... awful.” A pause, then. “Um, I found a sword for you. And a belt.”

“Thank you, Merrill.” Dry, but courteous. As always. Her heart hurt with how dear he was to her. 

Hawke hurried to his side as he laced the belt through the pants and knotted it around his slender hips. There were bruises there too. She looked away quickly and wondered, horrified, what Danarius could have done to cow someone like Fenris. He was so strong and proud. 

Taking the sword from Merrill, Fenris strode through the antechamber and into the hall. Varric and Anders turned at the sound, and Hawke watched the surprise fill Fenris’ face when they both immediately called out to him, delighted to see him safe. Varric was first, shaking his hand vigorously, then Anders, who gave him a sheepish look before extending a hand. Fenris took it, and they half-hugged, awkwardly, before Merrill dived in, apparently realizing that she had not yet hugged Fenris. Hawke just stood back, letting them fuss over him, one eye on the door at the other end of the hall. 

“We should keep moving,” Varric said, mirroring her thoughts. He went to clap Fenris on the shoulder, then saw the bruises and clearly thought better of it. “Glad you’re safe. Our Hawke was about to bring this entire mountain down to find you.”

Fenris looked sharply at her, green eyes unreadable, and she looked down, embarrassed. “Let’s just go.”

She felt his eyes on her as she strode down the hall, but her friends followed nonetheless. Thankfully, even Varric kept from commenting. They encountered only a few guards, which they dispatched quickly; apparently Merrill’s magic had not disrupted anyone else. The path began to slope downwards, and Hawke guessed that they were probably heading to the dock. She wished there was a way to send a message to Isabela and get backup. She remembered all too well how their last confrontation with Danarius had gone. Hopefully, this time they would catch him by surprise.

Finally, they reached a door with light visible from underneath. Hawke pressed her ear to the door, and nodded when she heard voices. Varric elbowed her aside to peer through the doorjamb, and hissed at what he saw.

“He’s there, alright. Beardy as ever. Four guards left. It looks like he’s preparing the ship to leave, and - Maker, is that for you?” Varric looked at Fenris, clearly horrified.

Hawke leaned over Varric’s head to peer as well. The dock was a large, mostly natural cave, with steps leading down to the beach. A ship was tethered there, and she saw Danarius talking to two men while another two loaded a silver cage onto the ship. Its steel bars shone in the light. Her stomach twisted. “It’s still the small ship. He must not be thinking to take you to Tevinter - oh. Oh no.” 

Another ship sailed into view, perfectly framed in the mouth of the cave. This ship was larger, a galley with two decks of oars. Even Isabela’s ship would be poorly matched against it. The cage clattered to the deck of the smaller ship, and the men carrying it began to walk back down the ramp. Hawke made a split second decision.

“If we fight here, they’ll have a shipful of reinforcements on us in a heartbeat.” She turned, urgency strong in her voice. “Let’s go!”

Fenris caught her arm, incredulous. “Danarius is right there. Are you going to just let him get away?” His face was twisted in anger.   
“If it’s a choice between not punishing him or risking you dead, absolutely.” She twisted out of his grip and gazed directly into his eyes, hoping to convince him. “I can’t lose you.” The truth of the words made her voice crack. “I can’t.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the door. “Give me your word that you will help me kill him. Not today, but someday. You’ll be by my side when I rip his heart out.” His green eyes were dark with hate, but his voice was steady.

“I give you my word. Now let’s go.” Hastily, they rushed down the hall, hearing the door creak open only seconds after they turned the corner and were out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, Hawke, you're getting vulnerable and Fenris is too tired, physically and emotionally, to be his usual guarded self. I wonder... what... will happen...


	8. VIII.

It was night when they got back to Kirkwall, which was probably just as well. Fenris was looking worse and worse, and the darkness hid his ragged appearance. When he brushed Hawke’s hand and mumbled, “Stay with me for a bit?”, she knew that he was hurting more than he was letting on. Nothing less than bone-deep trauma would ever make the Fenris she knew ask for help.

“Come back to my house,” she whispered back. “Orana can get some food in you, and medicine for those cuts.” She could have healed them in a heartbeat, but she knew from past experience that he would not appreciate magical healing, not if there was any other option to be had. 

He nodded, and when they said goodbye to Anders and Varric, he stayed by her side, more hunched than usual. They did not speak all the way back to her mansion, except for when he tripped on an upturned cobblestone and she asked if he was okay. Occasionally, she caught a glance of him in a torch or the light from a window. His eyes were nearly closed, and she realized he was skinnier than usual. She wondered if Danarius had fed him at all.

 

A block from her door, Fenris tripped again, and felt Hawke’s arms catch him, despite bracing herself against his weight. He gasped in pain at her touch on his lyrium and his cuts, and she winced back. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He straightened, away from her, then looked back, too tired to pretend to be strong anymore. “May I lean on you?” He hated to ask, but she nodded, and so they crossed the threshold leaning on each other. Orana, who had run to the living room at the sound of their entry, put a hand to her mouth. 

“Master Fenris!” She yelped. “What happened?”

“Don’t call me master,” he mumbled, but there was no teeth to it.

“Orana, get food for Fenris. And hot tea. Do we still have that salve, the one with lavender in it?” Orana nodded. “Good, get that too.” Fenris felt Hawke guiding him down onto something soft, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes. Slowly, he willed his back to relax into the cushions. He felt licking at his hand, then heard Orana call Hawke’s mabari out of the living room. The patter of paws receded into the distance, and then it was quiet.

“You know, I’ve seen you pretty messed up, but this is bad even for you,” Hawke quipped to hide her worry, and Fenris couldn’t help but smile. “Have you eaten recently?”

Fenris shook his head. “Disobedient slaves don’t deserve food.” He was too exhausted and heartsick to give the words the vitriol they warranted, and he saw her face change through his lashes.

“You absolutely deserve food,” she said, gently but with a fierce anger behind it. Surprised, he realized it was anger for his sake.  “Orana’s going to bring you something, and -” she hesitated, as if the next sentence was going to burn her. “And I’m going to stay with you for as long as you want me here.”

_ Always. _ Fenris closed his eyes again and, made bold by her care, leaned into her. She squirmed for a brief moment, then wriggled an arm free and put it around him, cautiously. He had missed her touch, her gentleness and the energy and strength underlying it. Her breathing was a reassuring reminder of her presence. He felt safe enough that he barely flinched at the sound of footsteps. There was a clink of china, and then Hawke was tapping his shoulder. He opened his eyes to be confronted with a steaming mug of tea, and a bowl of hot soup on the table next to him. When his stomach growled, he even grinned at Hawke’s uncontrolled giggling.

“Eat slowly,” she commanded, and he obeyed, spooning the soup slowly into his mouth. It was delicious, but he could only eat half the bowl before the ache in his belly turned from hunger to pain. Hawke’s arm was around him the entire time, something so lovely and undeserved that he almost wished the moment would never end. Orana entered the room, still giving him anxious looks, and told Hawke something. A moment later she removed her arm. He fought the urge to grab it and keep it around him. 

“Orana’s drawn a bath for you. You can wear some of Carver’s old clothes, he left some here when he became a templar. They’ll be too big, but we can make it work.” She rose, stifling a curse as her joints popped, and held out a hand to him. He was feeling better, but accepted the hand anyway. Recklessly, he decided he would be ashamed later. For now, he was going to just enjoy having her by his side. 

The last thing he heard before he closed the door to the room where a tub was waiting invitingly for him was Orana’s voice, timid but fierce - “And don’t think you can get away with not eating anything either, mistress Hawke.”

 


	9. IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes some cotton-candy fluff - Fen deserves it.

Hawke had obediently spooned down her own bowl of soup and freshened up, changing into new clothes while Orana took her robes to be washed, by the time Fenris emerged. In her brother’s larger, simple tunics, he seemed smaller. The delicate tracery of his lyrium was a further contrast from the rough homespun. He gave her a half-smile and sat across from her, damp hair hanging in his eyes. 

“Feeling better?” She asked to break the silence.

“A bit.” He looked down at his hands, eyes studying the pattern of tiny cuts. Hawke sat up and reached for the salve. 

“Here.” She held the little jar out to him. “Rub that on yourself. It’ll help those heal, and ease your muscle aches.”

“Which you would know from experience,” he said dryly, and she chuckled, nodding. He took the jar from her and, unscrewing it, began to anoint the cuts on his hands and arms. Hawke watched, quietly fascinated. Even bruised and hurting, he had incredible muscles, lean but well-defined under his skin, and she watched him rub the cream in with more than just idle curiousity. 

They sat that way for a while, silently. Eventually Fenris looked up at her and said, calmly, “Do you mind if I remove my shirt?”

Hawke shook her head silently, and he pulled the tunic gracefully over his head and began to rub the salve on his chest as well. Now it was harder to not be caught staring, so Hawke dipped her head and watched him through the screen of her eyelashes. It was only when he started trying to reach the cuts on his back that she sat up, exhaustion making her suddenly bold.

“I can get those for you, if you want,” she said, and immediately regretted it as he sized her up with those big green eyes. To her surprise, he nodded and held out the salve to her. She took it, conscious of an electrifying touch as their fingers brushed, and stood up to walk around to his back. 

He leaned forward to make it easier for her, his shoulder blades cutting out of his back like angel wings. Carefully, she warmed some of the cream in her hands and gently pressed her palms to his back. He flinched at the initial touch, then softened as she worked her hands across him, gently relaxing the muscles that were so tight under her fingertips. His head dipped lower, and at one point she swore that he let out a soft, contented noise. 

_ Almost  _ the _ noise, but not quite.  _ The one time he had shared her bed - the memory still had all its force, even after this long - she had heard him moan softly, and it had been the most erotic noise she had ever heard. This was different, more comfortable. She finished his back, resisting the urge to kiss it, and handed the salve back to him.

He took her hand instead, his palm cupping over her fingertips and the jar wedged in his grasp. “Danarius said you wouldn’t come for me,” he said softly, not looking at her.

“Danarius wouldn’t know friendship if it dressed up as Andraste herself and did the macarena on his doorstep,” Hawke remarked, half joke, half biting mockery. Fenris gave a short, dry laugh. 

“I started to believe him. I -” he paused, looking up into space to collect his thoughts. “I thought because I left you that night, you’d leave me there as well.” Their eyes met, and his were so vulnerable that it almost broke Hawke’s heart.

“I would never.” She tried to muster as much sincerity as she could. He had to believe her on this.

“I think about that night a lot,” he said, looking down at his lap again. “What I would do...differently.”

Hope stirred in Hawke’s heart, destructive and wild as a fire. “What would you do differently?” She asked, caressing his thumb with her own. 

“I -” He disentangled his hand from hers, and she set the salve on the table, watching his movements. He looked down, uncomfortably, then back up at her, green eyes alight with something unexpected and yet familiar. “I - can I kiss you?”

Hawke stared at him for a moment before walking back around the couch and bending down. Gently taking his face in her hands, she looked into his eyes for a brief second before closing her own and pressing her lips to his. 

It was better, this time. Their first kiss had been a sexy, passionate affair, all clumsy panting breaths and colliding noses. This was gentle, tender. She felt his gasp under her kiss when she first pulled away, a soft inhalation, and she opened her eyes to see his still closed, lips parted. The sight was enough to make her not want to pull away again for quite a while. His mouth was still soft and hot, and when he opened to her exploring tongue, she could barely suppress a noise of pleasure. 

One hand came up to the back of her neck and pulled her down onto his lap, one knee on either side of him. The other wrapped around the small of her back, pulling her closer, and she obliged, wrapping her fingers into his still damp hair. 

“Is this okay?” She whispered into his ear, and he made a soft noise of affirmation that was immediately followed by another gasp as she pressed her lips to the spot right below his ear and flicked her tongue over the spot. His hand tightened against the back of her neck, pressing her into him, and her body responded despite herself. She kissed his neck harder, and he stiffened suddenly in pain.

Immediately, she pulled back, searching in his eyes. He gave the half-smile she loved so much and looked down. “I’m a little bruised, still.” 

“Sorry,” she said, breathless. Inside her there was nothing but light and static, keeping any coherent thoughts from forming. All she was conscious of was the feeling of his hips under her thighs and how his hand was still nestled in the crook of her back, the other one tracing gently down her neck. It was dizzying.

How she felt must have shown on her face, because he chuckled and drew her towards him again. Now he was in charge, that much was clear - their mouths locked and she responded to him, one hand around the back of his neck while the other caressed his still shirtless chest. When they broke apart and he dropped his head to her neck, she ran her fingers through his still-damp hair, kissing lightly everywhere, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, then slipping down his temple to the bridge of his ear. 

“Still okay?” She whispered.

“I -” his breath caught as she moved down to his neck again, kisses still featherlight. “I cannot believe I ever lost hope.” 

Hawke looked up at him. He had such long lashes - they lay on his cheeks as he closed his eyes, lips slightly parted. The whole time she’d known him she had known his hope. She had seen him fight for the right to be free, never allowing anyone to imply that he was less than fully human and in control of himself. Fenris without hope was hardly Fenris at all.

“I’ll always have your back,” she said, gently. “Always.” He nodded, eyes still closed. She brushed his bangs back from his eyes. His hair was so soft and impossibly thick. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Would you like to stay with me tonight? We don’t have to...” she gestured, implying what felt too awkward to say. “I’m just not sure you’re in any condition to walk across Hightown,” she quipped instead of finishing.

Fenris smiled, opening his eyes lazily at her. “I think Orana would restrain me if I tried to leave, and I like your restraint more.” He gestured at her legs, still straddling his lap. 

Hawke blushed. “Would you like me to move?” 

“Hardly.” He reached up for her and kissed her one more time, slowly but passionately. “I like you right here.”

Hawke nuzzled into his neck, settling down against his still-shirtless chest, and he wrapped both arms around her, tucking his head into her shoulder. Slowly, his breathing steadied. When he let out a soft snore, Hawke knew he was truly asleep, and she raised her head against him, caressing his shoulder gently to wake him up. 

He awoke with a jerk and a small flare of lyrium, which stung her skin and activated the magic in it. She was not used to touching him when he glowed, and she could tell from the wince on his face that he had felt the shock too. “Sorry.”

“Did I... fall asleep?” He asked, looking down at her.

“Just a little. I didn’t realize you snored.” She grinned teasingly.

“I did not either,” he replied dryly. Hawke chuckled and disentangled herself from him. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed. I have a guest room, or -?” She let the question dangle. 

Fenris looked down thoughtfully, then rose slowly. “I think your room would be acceptable.”

Hawke’s stomach flipped with excitement, but she tried to keep a calm face. “Then let’s go.”


	10. X.

Fenris couldn’t understand how in the space of a day, his fortunes could change so much. That morning, he had been utterly hopeless, and now the future he had thought he had sacrificed entirely was terrifyingly within his grasp. Impulsively, he reached for her slender fingers, and was rewarded with a shy smile from the woman at his side. They locked fingers loosely as she led him up the stairs to where her bedroom was.

Hawke stopped at the door and looked seriously at him. “Are you sure this will be okay?”

He took a moment to consider, then nodded. 

“Okay. If you’re, I don’t know, not comfortable, you can let me know, alright? I’ll respect it.”

Fenris looked down at her serious face, her normally sharp brows furrowed in concern for him, and couldn’t help a small smile. “I know.”

“Okay. It’s just...” She chewed on her lower lip, searching for the words. “You’ve had a rough week.”

He had not forgotten. The fear and shame receded at her touch, but they came leaping back, and he looked away. “I can take it,” he muttered brusquely, pulling his hand from her.

There was a brief pause, then: “Well,  _ obviously _ ,” she quipped, brushing his arm with her fingertips. “You’re only the most capable fighter I know.” 

He looked back at her, startled. It never ceased to amaze him how unfazed she was by his moods, how calm she had always been in the face of his rage. Not that she ever let him get away with it, but that was different. And most capable fighter... 

“Flatterer,” he muttered, trying not to smile.

Hawke laughed aloud and opened the door to her bedroom for him. Orana had lit a fire, and the light crackled over the familiar room. Almost familiar.

“You’ve changed the canopy,” he accused.

She gave him the amused look he loved so well. “You remembered what canopy I had on the bed for three years?”

“I...” he paused, his heart suddenly too full to speak. How could he explain that he remembered everything from that night? Coming to her full of shame about his feelings, expecting to be sent away, and instead her soft lips on his, lips that turned hungry so soon. Her legs, wrapping around his waist as they had clumsily crashed into this room, fingers grasping at each other’s garments. The firelight on her bare throat as she straddled him, lips parted in exhilaration. The rush as he had climaxed, and the blinding too-much-ness that had sent him running from the room with only the shabbiest of goodbyes. Punching a wall when he realized what he had done, and the pain exploding through his knuckles. And through it all the shame. Shame before he had come to her, but more shame after. He looked down, unable to finish the sentence.

“Fenris?” Hawke was at his elbow, looking up at him. Her eyes revealed that she had read his mood again. He glanced away, unable to meet her eyes. “Can I give you another hug?”

He reached for her almost absently, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way for a while, soft firelight flickering over their entwined bodies. Slowly, consciously, he relaxed into her, finally letting his head drop to her shoulder. She was so warm. So warm. 

“Um, Fenris?” She mumbled into his ear, and he jerked straight again. 

“Yes?”

“Can we try this at a, well, horizontal angle? That way if you keep snoring at least it’s in a more comfortable position.” 

“Again?” He asked, sheepish, and she laughed in the way that made his chest go warm.

“A little bit.”

Bed had never sounded so good. 

 

Long after Fenris had fallen asleep, Hawke remained awake, studying the lines and angles of his body. She had never seen him relaxed enough to sleep around others before; even on their infrequent trips to the Wounded Coast, he always woke before her, slender form silhouetted against the dawn as he kept watch. He was so gentle when he slept. His body folded into her soft mattress, covers tucked up almost to his ears. The sound of his breathing lulled her to sleep.

She woke in the night, tangled in covers, to the sound of his ragged breathing, and groggily reached for him. He was sitting on the side of the bed, shaking, and she wrapped her arms around his waist from a half-sitting position. 

“You okay?” she mumbled into his back, and felt his breath hitch. 

“Nightmare,” he whispered back, one hand brushing hers desperately. 

Hawke wriggled more upright, trying to get a sense of his mood from his face, but he turned away. “Want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Just... hold me?”

She wrapped her arms around him properly then, holding on tightly, and after a moment he twisted into her embrace, burying his head in her shoulder and wrapping strong arms around her waist. Hawke was not quite sure when she realized he was crying, the silent tears of someone who had been punished for them too many times to ever truly relax. She simply pressed closer to him, stroking his hair and pressing gentle kisses to his cheek and neck until his breathing steadied.

They fell asleep still entwined in each other. In the morning, neither one mentioned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a short chapter, sorry! I was writing my thesis (I have a rough draft, yay!) and have been bad about posting. Things should return to normal soon - and the next chapter is very fun. :)


	11. XI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: I promised you guys smut at some point, didn't I?

The morning dawned cold and sunlit. Fenris woke first, as he always did, and sat bolt upright before working out where he was. Rubbing a hand over his face, he turned to look at the woman beside him.

She was all but consumed by the pillows, only the crown of her head and the fingertips of one hand visible. He smiled despite himself, carefully disentangling from the covers to go stand by the window. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the trauma of the past week was screaming to be dealt with, but he pushed it down. He would not spoil this morning with such thoughts. 

A soft noise from behind him made him turn, and he looked over to see Hawke sitting up in bed, grogginess written all over her features.

“I thought you’d left for a second there,” she said, smiling sleepily at him. “Want breakfast?”

Fenris shook his head, briefly too mesmerized by the sight of her to speak. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Hawke replied with a grin. “You’re looking better.”

Fenris turned to examine himself in her mirror. His bruises had faded to yellow and his cuts were half-closed. The effect seemed to him like he was moldy. He made a face and turned back to her.

She was laughing. “I didn’t say you looked healed, silly. Just better.” She rose, dragging the blankets around her shoulders. “Can I touch you?” When he nodded, she wrapped her arms around him, blankets and all. 

“Mmph,” Fenris protested weakly, chuckling. 

“I am a ferocious blanket monster,” she mumbled into his chest, and he embraced her over the blankets.

“Captured,” he purred into her ear. 

“Already was,” she told his neck, a softness creeping into her voice. “We were real morons for a few years, weren’t we?”

Fenris simply nodded, nuzzling into her shoulder and inhaling the sleepy scent of her. After a moment, she stretched up and kissed his cheek, unhurriedly. He closed his eyes, relaxing into her embrace. 

And jolted up a moment later as unwanted memories shot through his mind. “Did Danarius get away?”

“I don’t know.” Hawke’s serious tone hid what he thought was worry. “If he did, Isabela saw which way he went.”

“He won’t leave,” Fenris said, a lifetime of certainty weighing on him. “I know him. If he’s brought such a large ship, he’s made an expedition of it. A hunting party.”

“A -  _ what? _ ” Hawke pulled away to look him in the eyes, fury written all over her face. “You mean to say this is sport to him?”

“A performance, designed to improve his status among the other magisters. A few of them are certainly aboard that ship, having drinks and relaxing. I’m sure he had quite the party planned for my return.” Hawke’s arms were muffled by the blanket, but he still felt them tighten to the point of discomfort. “Ouch.”

“Shit, sorry,” she said, relaxing her grip. “I just...I know you as this proud, independent,  _ beautiful _ ...” she looked away from him, biting her lip as she fumbled for the words. “I hate the thought of that being taken from you. So much.”

Fenris’ chest swelled with heat and warmth. He looked down at her, unable to form the words, and Hawke seemed to understand. One hand worked its way free of the blankets, and she dived up to kiss him, hard and passionate. He responded in kind, wrapping his arms around her waist, almost picking her up with the force of it. She gasped and opened her mouth to his, one hand working its way through the hair at the back of his neck. The blankets fell to the floor, unheeded, and her body pressed against his, her nightgown and his shirt barely separating them. She tasted of morning and freedom, of kind words and bloodstains, and he could not get enough of it. 

 

Hawke did not realize that she had stepped back until her calves collided with the bedframe and she stumbled, breaking their kiss. She took a deep breath, staring into his eyes, before he bent to kiss her again. Unconsciously, she found herself fumbling with the hem of his shirt, and he took one hand from her back - such a loss - to pull it off, one movement, before he returned the same fine-boned hand to her face and kissed her hungrily. She ran her hands up his back, pressing fingertips to his shoulderblades to get him closer to her. 

Suddenly, Fenris stopped, holding her face in both hands and looking seriously at her. Hawke gazed back, trying to read those lovely green eyes. 

“I... think I would like to try this again,” he said, softly. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“Of course,” Hawke said, her heart breaking slightly at the vulnerability of the request. 

“Can we move slowly?” He asked after a moment. “I don’t...I don’t know what will happen. To me.”

“Of course.” She turned her face into his hand and kissed his thumb, lightly. “Would you like to lie down?”

He nodded, letting her go to recline on the bed. She sat next to him, conscious of the responsibility he had trusted her with. Picking up one fine-boned hand, she examined it almost reverently, running a finger over the spaces between the lines of lyrium. Slowly, she raised his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to each fingertip, slowly and gently, looking at him periodically to see his reaction. 

His eyes were closed, long, fine lashes just brushing his cheeks, but when she stopped, he opened them lazily and raised an eyebrow dryly at her. 

“Good?” She whispered, and he nodded. Gently, she turned his hand over and kissed his palm, a little firmer, a little flick of her tongue. “Still good?”

“You are an absolute fox of a woman,” he mumbled, and she laughed, moving her attention to his wrists, kissing up his arm slowly. Gently, she bent into him and kissed his collarbone, and was rewarded with a soft inhale and a half-smile. That warranted a little more attention, a little more enthusiasm. When he raised a hand and caressed her back, she moved to his neck, pressing warm kisses to the spot where his jawbone met those long, delicate ears. When her lips brushed the line of lyrium nestled there, he gasped.

“Okay?” She asked, pulling away immediately, and he nodded.

“Yes.” His voice was deep as he wrapped an arm around her. “Very.”

Hawke grinned wickedly and bent her head to kiss the lines on his neck, so gently as to be almost imperceptible, and was rewarded with a shudder from him that almost made her lose control herself. His hand clutched at the thin fabric of her nightgown, and she straightened to slip it over her head.

Fenris’ eyes opened, and the hunger in his eyes almost made her self-conscious. His lips parted softly. “You are so beautiful,” he mumbled huskily.

Hawke bent to kiss him, her heart too full for words, and his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her onto him. She slipped a leg over to sit on his stomach, pressed against his bare chest. He was kissing her hard and she responded, kissing him as if it was the way to reach through to him and touch his essence, tell him that it would be okay, that she would never leave him. She could feel him hardening against her, and when they finally broke apart, she straightened and slipped herself down until she was straddling one of his legs. Only then did she bend and tap his pants. “Can I take these off?”

He nodded and arched his hips to help her slide them off. They were loose on him anyways, slipped off easily. Hawke lowered herself to a crouch, head very close to his cock, then looked up at him. “Would you like a kiss?” She asked devilishly.

He sat up a bit, then shook his head, and Hawke nodded and straightened. “You can...touch it, though,” Fenris mumbled after a moment.

Hawke smiled and took him in one hand, holding his shaft firmly and moving up and down in long, steady strokes. After a moment, she softened her grasp and ran her palm over the head, and was rewarded with his groan.

“Good?” She asked, not stopping the motion. 

“Fox,” he mumbled, one hand grasping at the sheets, and she took a moment to slip off her smallclothes before returning to him, running one hand up his shaft and allowing the other to work a finger between her soft folds. There was little to be done there, unsurprisingly - she was already wet with anticipation. Her teasing had not just worked on him. 

“Ready?” She asked, gently, no expectation in her heart, and he nodded. Slowly, she returned to straddling him. She _wanted_ him, three years of want like a flaming knot at the core of her, but this was no time to rush. Using one hand to help, she carefully, fumblingly, took him inside her. The feeling made both of them gasp, and she closed her eyes in pleasure before looking down at him, meeting his hot green eyes. “Is this okay?”

He made a noise somewhere between a moan and an affirmation and grasped at her hip, and she began to move, pressing herself into him. His breathing quickened and his body responded to her, sending wild sensations through her core. His hand brushed her breasts, a thumb caressing her nipple, and she ground into him harder at the feeling. 

A rustle of sheets, and then he was sitting up, his arms around her, thrusting deeper inside her, and now it was her turn to moan and close her eyes in pleasure, hands raking at his back. When he turned her over and pressed her into the mattress, she almost came right there and then, a curse slipping from her lips without her permission. His lips locked onto hers as they moved together, faster and faster. 

Hawke came first, arching her back with a cry that hardly seemed to have any place in the wave of pleasure that washed over her. Fenris was right behind her, trembling thrusts that ended in him collapsing on top of her, sweat dewing his skin as he rested his forehead on her collar bone. She wrapped her arms around him, rubbing his back gently.

“So, still okay?” she offered, and he laughed throatily, eyes still clenched shut. 

“Yes.” He ran a finger over her shoulder, almost reverently. “I - I felt them there again, but -” he swallowed, and she felt his throat move against her chest. “I had more control.” 

“In managing your memories, at least,” she teased, and he laughed again, giddily. The sound made her heart feel like at any moment it would spring from her chest, and she squeezed him tightly. 

He gasped in pain, and Hawke immediately let go. “Right, bruised, sorry.”

Fenris nodded, slipping himself out of her and fumbling for his trousers. Hawke sat up and covered his hand with hers, and he gave her a brief smile. 

“Are you sure that was okay?” She asked, trying to balance her concern with a certain over-protectiveness that she was feeling.

“I am. That was just...” he looked away. “A lot to process.”

“You know, usually people cuddle after they have sex,” she teased, putting an arm around him, and was rewarded with another small smile.

“Would you like to?” He asked, awkwardly, turning to cup her face with one lyrium-lined hand.

“I would if you would,” Hawke replied, studying him for any sign of reluctance. 

He nodded, lying back down on the bed. Hawke curled up into him, resting her head on one arm and wrapping the other around him. After a moment, he rested his head on her own. After another, he wrapped a leg around hers, pulling her closer, and she choked back a giggle.

“What?” He asked immediately, looking down at her.

“Nothing,” Hawke replied, planting a kiss on his arm. “I guess you really did want to cuddle is all.”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and nuzzled her neck for a moment. The silence flowed over them, a feeling of peace belied by the healing cuts on his chest. When Hawke felt her eyes closing again, she allowed them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: this is my first time writing a sex scene (but it really did sort of just write itself in) so let me know what you think!


	12. XII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay, but on the other hand I am officially in possession of my bachelor's degree!

When Fenris woke again, he found himself still wrapped around Hawke, both arms pinned by hers. She was snoring lightly, and he made a note to tease her about it when she woke. The sun was higher now - the light creeping in through her curtains stretched only a few feet across the floor. Hawke’s face was in shadow, but she looked more peaceful than he had seen her in a long time. Her long lashes caressed her cheeks in a rare sign of femininity, and she was still gloriously naked, but the sight aroused no lust in him this time, simply wonder. 

The footsteps from downstairs came again, accompanied by muffled voices, and he raised his head to listen before lifting an arm and shaking Hawke gently.

“What?” She mumbled, grabbing for his arm and dragging it back over her chest. 

Fenris smiled despite himself. “I think we’ve shirked our responsibilities for long enough.” His healing cuts were a reminder of the stakes they were playing for.

Hawke groaned, then opened her eyes and blinked up at him. “You’re right.” Releasing his arm, she swung her legs over the bed and moved to her wardrobe. Fenris watched her movements, enjoying the curve of her ass in the firelight, until she turned and gave him a knowing glance. “You have to get dressed too, you know.”

Right. Fenris dressed hurriedly, running a hand over his hair to smooth it down. “Shall I leave first or shall you?”

“I - what?” Hawke paused, midway through lacing up a wristlet.

“So as to avoid suspicion.”

“Oh, Fenris.” Hawke dropped her hand and crossed the room in long strides to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “I don’t give a drake’s ass if they suspect, if they know, or if they call it from the rooftops of Hightown. Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, and still less when it’s with you.”

Fenris’ chest warmed, almost unbearably. The pride in Hawke’s voice was undeniable, and he could scarcely believe that it was directed at him. “So it was that good?” He asked slyly, to hide the rawness of his feelings.

She laughed heartily and tweaked at the collar of his shirt. “Finish getting dressed.” 

 

Varric was waiting for them downstairs, along with Aveline. “Sleep well, Broody?” He asked, grinning knowingly at Fenris, who seemed discomfited. Hawke wondered how long it would take before her exploits made the rounds in Lowtown taverns, except probably with more dragons and lusty moans.

Aveline thankfully rescued them both, rising from where she had been petting the mabari that drooled in front of the fireplace to clap Fenris on the back. He winced under her strong blow, and she immediately flinched back. “Sorry. I’m just glad to see you safe and sound.”

“As are we all,” Varric said brusquely. “Look, Hawke, we may have a chance to nab Danarius, but we’re going to have to move fast.”

Immediately, Hawke was all ears. “Tell me.”

“He’s pulled his ship alongside the cave. I’m not sure why, but it gives us an opportunity. We’ll never be able to run them down on the open water, but if they’re anchored, we may be able to sneak up on them under cover of night.”

“How do we know it’s not a trap?” Hawke asked immediately.

“A couple of reasons. First, he doesn’t know we have a ship. We attacked him from land last time. Second, if what Broody said is right and he’s brought other magisters with him, he’s not likely to put them in danger.”

“Danarius is cunning,” Fenris said suddenly. He was not looking at any of them, but the hatred was twisting his handsome face. “We would do well to not underestimate him.”

Hawke felt a flash of irritation - did he think they did not know that, after their past two encounters - then crushed it down. It would be unconstructive to lash out at him now. “Is there anything that we should know about him, to help predict his actions?”

“He is smart,” Fenris said after a moment of thought. “And he is a master of manipulation.” There was a distant look in his eyes that frightened Hawke, but she pushed him anyway. 

“Do you think he’s laying a trap for us?” She asked, as gently as possible.

Fenris sighed and looked down, fiddling with a sleeve. “I do not know.” 

Hawke pursed her lips, running a hand across her shaved head. “Ultimately, I think it’s your call. You have the most riding on this.”  _ But I can’t bear to lose you either. _

Fenris turned on her, an angry light in his eyes. “You think I don’t know that? I either risk losing my only real chance at revenge, risk him coming after me again, or I risk my freedom, and yours as well.” His voice darkened, became quieter, if no less forceful. “You have given me an impossible choice, Hawke.”

Hawke tried not to let the hurt show on her face. She hated not being able to allow him gentleness, but the decision had to be made now. “That’s what freedom is, Fenris,” she said quietly. “Making impossible choices.”

He glared at her, shaking with anger and something else, and she met his gaze steadily, keeping her face calm, her posture open. Finally he turned and pounded a fist into her desk, making the inkwell rattle merrily. “We go after him. I will not live looking over my shoulder any longer.”

Hawke heard Varric let out a breath of relief. Aveline had been watching their exchange impassively, arms folded. Now she unfolded them. 

“Then you sail tonight, I assume. I suppose I need not remind you that if the Champion is caught assassinating a Tevinter magister, that will create an international incident.” But her eyes were less stern than her tone belied.

“Champion?” Hawke asked, the picture of innocence. “Hardly, it’ll be just some good old-fashioned piracy. But if the guard were to be investigating the tunnels for evidence of smuggling, for example, around the same time, and happened to catch some slavers red-handed...” she let the sentence trail off suggestively.

Aveline laughed. “You will be the death of me, Hawke. I’ll arrange such a patrol, on an anonymous tip-off.” 

Hawke turned to Varric, who was fidgeting with an earring. “And I trust you have a brilliant plan, O Plan-Master?”

“As always, Champion,” he said with an extravagant bow only slightly marred by his jovial smirk. 


	13. XIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a little more smut (it just sort of slipped in there, don't ask me)

Fenris watched them plan, Hawke’s animated fingers gesticulating over a map of the Wounded Coast, and prayed that he had made the right decision. His stomach was a solid knot of fear, and his body still ached from the abuses of the past week. The idea of what Danarius would do if he recaptured him again was still not so awful, though, as the idea of what he would do to Hawke. She would not be valuable to him unless he could break her, make her serve him. If he could not, he would kill her. He was not sure which thought sickened him more. She was too lovely of a bird to ever be caged, but he could not bear to see her die for him. And if he himself weakened again...

“Master Fenris?” Came a timid voice at his elbow, and he looked down to see Orana, holding out a pastry wrapped in a napkin. “I thought you might be hungry.”

He was, he suddenly realized, ravenous. “Please don’t call me Master,” he mumbled, taking the pastry from her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Master Fenris,” she said, curtseying neatly, and he thought he caught a glimpse of a devious smile before she scurried off to hand another pastry to Hawke. The girl was healing. Healing perhaps better than he was. Bitterly, he took a bite of the pastry. It was hot and filled with cheese, potato, and sausage, the outside light and fluffy, and he felt better immediately.

“If we strike by night we’ll risk fighting at night,” Varric said, looking up at Hawke. “Then we’ll both be blind and it’ll be a slaughter.”

“How close do you think we can get to their ship without being seen?” Hawke ran a finger over her chin musingly. 

“Probably no closer than two hundred yards, and that’s if all of Isabela’s crew can keep their gobs shut for that long.”

“Okay, what about this. We sail up close to them in the night, no lights, no nothing. Just before dawn, you take out their sentries at range. We attack in the dawn light, take them by surprise.”

“Pet, I’m good and Bianca is better, but there is no way we’ll be able to shoot six hundred feet. There’s no archer that can.” Varric caressed the crossbow with one stubby hand as he spoke.

“No, but if we put you in a rowboat and get you closer...” Hawke raised an eyebrow, and Varric’s grin split open into a peal of laughter.

“Andraste’s ass, that might work. It’s crazy, but it might work.”

“That’s me,” Hawke sang sweetly around a mouthful of pastry. “Crazy but functional.”

Fenris had never felt so much love for the people he knew. That Varric, Aveline, Isabela, Merrill, even Anders... that they were all prepared to risk their lives to protect him, without asking anything for it, seemed impossible. And Hawke, the thread that had connected them all. That had pulled him into this bizarre group almost impulsively, a friendship formed over the corpses of slavers. He loved her, and he needed her to know immediately.

Thankfully, Varric and Aveline were leaving, Varric to spread word to the others of the plan and Aveline to rally her guards. Fenris shifted his weight from foot to foot as they talked and hugged in the doorway, waved goodbye to him - he returned the wave, trying to conceal his impatience - and walked out the doorway into the bright Hightown air. 

The moment the door closed behind them he was moving, more instinct than choice, to Hawke’s side. He saw her eyes widen and her mouth open to form a question before he crashed into her, wrapping his arms around her as they collided against the foyer wall. Desperately, his lips found hers and he pressed into her, tongue dancing against hers as she gave a low moan in the back of her throat. 

When he finally pulled away, her eyes were half-closed, but they flicked back to alertness at the cessation of his touch. “Maker, Fenris, what was that for? Not that I mind, but -” her voice was stifled as he kissed her again, unable to be apart from her for long enough to let her finish. “-but it was a little unexpected.”

“I love you.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, raw and unprepared. “Since... since I don’t know when. I loved you the first moment I kissed you, and I loved you when I left, and I have loved you every minute since, and it wasn’t until you came for me that I realized that you might not know.” He took a deep breath, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. “Forgive me.”

She looked at him, lips parted, cheeks darkly flushed. “I love you too,” she said after a pause, and then she was the one kissing him, hard and hot and wet and desperate for another touch. He matched her in intensity, and they slammed up against the edge of a bookcase and slid down it, Fenris on top of her. It was hardly comfortable, but he didn’t care, he needed her and he could not, would not wait. 

“Bedroom?” She offered weakly from beneath him, but his lips were already pressing into her collarbone, and her word dissolved into a moan. “Guess not,” she mumbled, fumbling with the laces of his trousers. 

He helped her along with one desperate hand, the other caressing her breast. They came together roughly, the gentleness of the morning thrown aside, and Hawke gasped into his ear before stiffening and pulling away a bit to look at his face.

“Are you sure this is okay?” She asked, looking worriedly at his face, and he laughed a little before pulling her close to him again. 

“I don’t care,” he whispered into her ear, thrusting into her. She responded, tightening around his cock. The sensation was blinding, and he groaned into her neck, one hand slipping inside her robes to brush across a tight nipple. Her hips pressed against him at the feeling, and he heard her moan. They moved together so perfectly, the bookcase rattling ominously overhead with the force of their bodies. 

He came in an unexpected rush, collapsing over her as memories pounded through his head for an instant -  _ playing in a garden doing pull-ups behind the kitchens yelling swearing noMamaletmedothispleasepleasepleaseno -  _ and then he was back, his forehead dewed with sweat and Hawke’s arms around him, one hand stroking gently through his hair.

His first thought was of anger, and shame at himself. He must have seemed so savage to her, even as she asked about him. He loved her, but that was no excuse. Guiltily, he looked up at her golden eyes, expecting to see hurt there, but instead she kissed him softly on the lips. 

“That was fun,” she whispered wickedly. 

Fenris pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes tightly so that she would not see his emotion. “I love you,” he mumbled.  

“I love you too,” she told him, running her hand over one delicate ear and chuckling when he twitched it away from her instinctively. “But we’re going to traumatize Orana if we stay here like this any longer.”

That made him laugh, the knot inside him unclenching as it always did when she soothed it. “I hope she’s...alright with this.” He liked the elf-girl, admired her compassion and her kindness. 

“Orana?” Hawke asked, carefully slipping out from under him and straightening to brush off her robes. “She’ll be thrilled.”

“She - will be thrilled.” Fenris thought he had misheard Hawke, even as he adjusted his own clothing.

“Oh yeah. I mean, when she got here she was too timid to tell me much of anything. The only way I could get her to have a blasted conversation with me was by talking about you, at first.” Hawke grinned at him and straightened his collar. “She’s very fond of you, I think.” 

Fenris felt his ears flush. “I am fond of her as well,” he said awkwardly.

“Hawke stretched languidly and let out a sigh. “Well, we should probably go get you some armor, huh? And -” her gaze softened, became almost timid - “I know you don’t like magical healing, but I promise you’ll feel better if I finish patching you up.”

Fenris cringed instinctively. Magic buzzed against his skin like an insect, overwhelming and irritating in equal measure. Hawke was always kind about it, so unlike Anders’ rough touch, sometimes unasked for. That magic burned, leaving Fenris itchy and bad-tempered. But Hawke was right. He needed to be in top form. “Fine.”

“Ooh, contain your excitement,” Hawke said dryly, and he gave a half-smile despite himself. “Ready?”

He nodded, and after a moment felt the tingling cover him, ricocheting between his scars and covering his whole body. It was hot and cold in equal measure, overwhelmingly itchy to the point that it invaded his brain and made his thoughts slow to a crawl. Almost immediately, the feeling vanished, but he still rubbed a hand unconsciously over his neck before scratching at his arms and shivering. 

“Feel better?” Hawke asked.

“Somewhat,” Fenris said irritably. 

“I know magical healing feels weird,” Hawke told him gently. “I can’t imagine it’s any fun for someone with lyrium in them. Now come on, you need armor and a sword. I think I have some stuff in the cellar from adventures.”

Fenris thought that “some stuff” was putting it lightly. The cellar was part casks of ale and bottles of wine and part store-room, cramped but impeccably ordered in a way that showed Bodahn’s skillful hand. Weapons hung on a rack along one wall, while chests contained documents, precious stones, and other novelties. A series of shelves contained clearly magical items, separated safely from each other. 

“The armor is over here,” Hawke said, taking a candle from the wall-sconce and lighting the torches to reveal a series of mannequins, as well as a basket of miscellaneous pieces. “I don’t know that we’ll be able to find something that matches your personal sense of style, but I dare say we can keep you from getting too injured.”

“I am grateful,” Fenris said dryly, examining the sets. “You have kept all this?”

Hawke looked embarrassed. “I always snag something because I think I’ll sell it and then it ends up being too much work. Except for the precious stones, those are easy enough. Now, we won’t have time to alter it, so hopefully something here fits you.”

Fenris surveyed the options, then turned back to the weapons. Thoughtfully, he ran his fingers over the hilts before selecting a greatsword, skillfully made with a leather-wrapped hilt, a simple silver pommel and crossguards worked into an ornate twisting pattern. The ceiling was too low here to swing it properly, but it felt good in his hand. Only then did he move back to the armor.

Hawke coughed. “Okay, I’m about as useful as a qunari in a china shop here, so I’ll be upstairs if you need me, okay?”

Fenris nodded, absently, and she strode to the stairs in a rustle of robes before turning on the first step. “Fenris.” He looked up to see her blowing him a kiss, a cheeky light in her eyes. “I love you.” 

“I am yours,” he told her, his heart warming impossibly, and she smiled before hurrying upstairs and leaving him to sort out his armor problem. 


	14. XIV.

The night came uncomfortably soon, at least by Hawke’s reckoning. She had asked Sandal to add a new rune to her robes, one that decreased the effects of anti-magic spells, and spent some time in the garden stretching and warming up. None of it did anything to assuage her nerves. Every time she closed her eyes it seemed that she could see Fenris in front of her, bloody and wearing chains. It was a gruesome reminder of what would happen if she failed. 

And he loved her. All the years of waiting, not daring to hope, and now a dazzling future stretched out in front of her, one she was almost scared to grasp. Hawke loved rarely and fiercely, and her feelings and her fear now threatened to consume her. When the time came for them to join the others at the Docks, she was almost relieved for the distraction. Fenris joined her from the library, dressed in a simple black leather cuirass with steel splints. As usual, his feet were bare, but he had found trousers that fit at long last. The greatsword was slung over his back.

“Looking a little less spiky, I see,” she teased to hide her nerves.

“Yes.” She could not tell if he was taciturn out of nerves or anger. Probably both.

“Are you ready to go?” Hawke adjusted one gauntlet, more from habit than discomfort.

“I -” he paused for a moment, then turned and gently lifted her face with his hand. “Hawke. When I first met you I asked you what one did when they stopped running. You told me, ‘you build a life’.” 

Hawke felt frozen in the moment. His calloused fingers were warm on her jaw, and his green eyes were afire with an intensity that was dizzily turning her insides into pudding. Carefully, she nodded, not breaking their touch. 

“When this is over - I want to. To build a life. And if you would have me, I would like you to be a part of it.” His thumb caressed her cheekbone, but his eyes darted anxiously over her face.

“You know me,” Hawke said, trying to contain a smile that was threatening to conquer her face. “I’ll be a part of your life whether or not you want me in it.” Then, because that felt insufficient, she laid a hand on his other wrist and added, “Although you know my life won’t be easy. This won’t be easy. The future is going to be - a whole mess, and I don’t know how much of a life-builder I can be until the city gets itself sorted out.”

Fenris chuckled, drawing her closer. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

“There will be, Fenris,” Hawke told him, looking seriously into his eyes. “Tonight, we make sure of that.”

She wasn’t sure, before she closed her eyes for his kiss, but she thought she saw a look of relief on his face. It strengthened her resolve like nothing else could have.

When they broke apart, his hands lingered on her for a moment before turning for the door. Hawke had a sudden idea.

“Wait, Fenris,” she told him, before charging up the stairs to her bedroom and rustling through her drawers. Seizing upon a red silk handkerchief, she balled it into her hand and dashed back down. 

The surprise was palpable on his face when she opened her grasp. “Since you lost the last one - which I swear, I do not know how you got ahold of it in the first place - I thought you might want this.”

“I do,” he murmured, taking it gently from her and turning it over in one armored hand. After a moment, he held it out to her. “Will you do the honors this time?”

Hawke nodded, smiling warmly at him, and carefully wrapped the fabric around his wrist. Tying it tightly, she caressed his hand for a moment before dropping it. “Consider it a promise to make it back to me.”

“I promise,” he told her, green eyes meeting hers. Wordlessly, they shared a fierce nod before turning and leaving her mansion. 

Their friends were waiting on the gangplank, except for Isabela. Varric gave them a cheerful grin. 

“Ready to launch this little expedition?” He asked, voice more hushed than usual.

“Born ready,” Hawke said, and this time she meant it. Fenris was a calming presence at her side, a rock she could lean on. She felt, more than saw, his nod. 

“Good.” Varric hefted his crossbow with a wry grin. “Let’s go get this bearded bastard.”

The night was cool and quiet as Isabela’s sailors loosed the moorings and raised the sails. They were impressively quiet, Hawke thought. Isabela seemed to play fast and loose with a lot of things, but not with sailing. Her crew obeyed her like they had sailed under her for years, although she noticed one of them had a fresh bandage on his hand and was wearing a contrite look. Hawke decided she did not need to know the story behind that incident. 

Merrill looked paler than usual, and Hawke made her way over to her. “You feeling alright?”

“Just a little queasy,” the woman said, looking down. “I don’t like boats much.”

Hawke nodded sympathetically. “We’re not going far, and not out onto the open ocean. And if you need to yak -” she thumbed over the side. 

“Hawke.” That was Varric. “We need to cover your face.”

“What?” Hawke blinked down at the dwarf. 

“You’re the Champion. Not exactly unrecognizable. But with your hood and an appropriately terrifying mask, you become just another pirate raider.”

“I can’t cast and wear a mask, I’ll probably light it on fire. You know how heavily I’ve enchanted my robes to be fireproof.” Hawke considered for a moment. “Besides, you’re a beardless dwarf. Not exactly discreet.”

Varric held up what looked to be a dead blonde rat on a string. “Never too late to return to my roots, pet.”

Hawke sighed, defeated. “Fine, what do you have in mind?”

Varric reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Tie this over your nose and mouth.”

“So... not a terrifying mask, then? I’m disappointed.” Hawke was not.

“If we’re lucky, nobody will survive to know the difference.” Varric winked and strode off across the deck. 

Hawke sighed and tilted her head back, freeing herself from the confines of her hood. It was deep night, and the stars glimmered above her. All was quiet, except for the murmured conversation of the sailors and the lapping of the waves against the hull. It would be peaceful, if it weren’t for what they were planning. 

Raising her eyes, she saw Fenris leaning against one of the masts. His arms were folded against his chest, one leg lifted, foot planted against the wood. Even after all this time, he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The starlight played delicately over his lyrium markings, illuminated his white hair.

He caught her staring, raised an eyebrow, and she blushed before going to stand by him. “Are you ready?”

“What would being ready look like?” He asked, direct as always. “Cracking jokes like Varric? Stoic like Aveline?”

“No, I just -” Hawke started, and Fenris sighed.   
“That was unworthy of me. The truth is that I am not ready, and I may never be, but nonetheless, I have to be.” He looked over at her, his hair covering his eyes. “No matter what comes, I am glad you are here.”

“By your side,” Hawke told him, entwining her hand with his. After a moment, he turned to her and rested his forehead on hers, placing a hand behind her neck. They stayed there for a moment, eyes closed. Hawke could feel his breath, his heartbeat, the stars above them. 

Finally, he straightened and turned away, sitting down and leaning his back against the mast. Hawke joined him, their shoulders barely touching. They stayed that way until the whispered cry came down from the crow’s nest, and the lights of Danarius’ ship became visible on the horizon. 

“How long until dawn?” Hawke whispered, looking to her companions. 

“About an hour,” Anders murmured back. “What’s the plan?”

“You and Varric will be in the lifeboat. Anders, your job is to protect Varric, that’s it. Magic will be too showy. The rest of us will wait until dawn and rush them before they have the chance to react.” 

“What do we do with the other magisters? The ones that aren’t Danarius?”

_ Kill them. _ Hawke squashed the thought. “If they fight you, kill them. If they beg, we’ll take them hostage and leave them on a deserted island or something.” She felt Fenris’ disapproval immediately, and raised a hand. “We don’t know how many magisters are on that ship. In the interests of not going to war with Tevinter, we have to make this look like a regular pirate attack.”

She felt him shift, then speak. “Don’t kill the slaves unless you have to. They don’t know anything else than what they are.”

The crew nodded, solemn, and Hawke gave Fenris a small smile. “You heard him. Now. What do we have to do to get that boat in the water quietly?”


	15. XV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: fairly graphic violence, death.

Fenris watched from the deck as the sky slowly lightened to grey. The small rowboat was invisible in the waves, and the people on the other ship were only small dots, but he still strained his eyes to catch them. When the first one fell, he could not help but pound his fist on the railing in excitement.

“Shh.” Hawke laid a hand over his, slipping her fingers between his own. 

“I apologize,” he whispered back. “Varric is an incredible shot.”

“Don’t say that while he can hear you.”

“Do you see him around?”

She chuckled, and after a moment he put his arm around her. Her body was comfortable against his, warm and soft and angled. She leaned into his embrace, slipping an arm around his waist, and he pressed his chin to the top of her head, the stubble of her shaved hair tickling at his chin. 

“You’re less squeezable in this,” she complained after a moment, and he grinned despite himself. Another guard fell, another black dot dropping to the deck. Then a third, and a fourth. The east began to turn a soft pink.

“He’s taking too long,” Fenris whispered, anxiety plucking at his chest.

“He has to. Each shot has to be to kill, or we’ll be made.” But Hawke seemed just as nervous as him.

Finally, the last guard fell, and Fenris saw the boat making its way back to the ship. After what felt like an age, there was a sudden hushed flurry of activity, and then the boat was hauled back over the side, dripping wet and smelling of seawater. Varric clambered over the side and made his way over to Hawke.

“Not bad, was it?” His broad face was split by a confident grin.

Hawke chuckled and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “Anything I tell you will go to your head more than your immensely skillful shooting already has.”

“My head? No. All the credit goes to Bianca.” He patted the butt of the crossbow strapped to his back. “Now what?”

“Now,” Isabela called from the helm, “we row up nice and close and fire a round of cannonballs into the slaving shitheels.”

Fenris felt the battle-lust swell inside him. After all this time, he would get his revenge. Even Danarius could not haunt him from beyond the grave. 

After a moment of hasty organization, the crew was in position at the oars, and at the quiet, regular beat of a drum, they began to move, closing the gap between the ships rapidly. The sky was completely light now, and the tell-tale glow to the east told Fenris that the sun would rise soon. They had planned their attack just right. The drum in the belly of the ship propelled him forward just as much as the rhythmic strokes of the crew. 

“Cannons!” Isabela called in a hush, and a clatter below decks signified the opening of the shutters that kept them hidden. The drum increased its pace under the orange sky.

“Hold -” Isabela had her hand out, thumb outstretched, charting the distance to the other ship. It was approaching at an alarming rate, the dots revealing themselves to be corpses, each with a crossbow bolt through the head.  _ Varric  _ is _ good, _ Fenris thought, loosening his sword in its sheath. 

“Now!” Isabela dropped her hand like the flag at the start of some race, and with a rattle and then a rumble, a deafening cacophony of sound came from below them. Fenris gripped the railing with both hands as the balls collided with the ship across from them, wood splintering with a horrendous groan. They were close enough that he heard the panicked yells, and a sick part of him took pleasure in it.  _ We are coming for you, Danarius. _

“Port!” Isabela turned the wheel, putting her whole weight behind it, and the ship turned alarmingly severely as half the rowers sat back on their oar. “Grappling hooks!”

Fenris watched as half a dozen crewmembers scaled the masts, hanging on by the pressure of their leanly-muscled calves, and readied wicked metal spikes to throw. The other ship was close now, no more than twenty feet, and he could see the guards as they sprinted up the stairs, some only half-dressed. Even from this distance the shock on their faces as they discovered their dead companions was evident. 

“Now!” Isabela yelled, all sense of secrecy gone, and the hooks flew by overhead, tangling into rigging and bouncing off masts. “Pull!”

With a tremendous groan, the ships closed the distance, and Fenris drew his sword. Looking over at Hawke, he saw the same wild bloodlust on her face. She had tied some kind of ridiculous bandana over her face, but her golden eyes still shone brightly at him in the dawn light. The bannister of the other ship careened ever closer, and then the gap was closed with a crash and a splintering of wood. 

Fenris barely needed Hawke’s nod. Taking a running start, he swung the greatsword above his head and, a yell ripping from his throat, leaped over the railing as the sun rose.

 

Hawke swung her staff in an arching semi-circle, turning the first row of guards into icicles, as Fenris ran by her. For a single, beautiful moment, he was arched between the two ships, sword raised above his head, sunlight illuminating his whole form, before he landed among the frozen guards and finished the work she had begun. Taking a running start herself, she leaped to join him. For a mage, she always prefered to fight up close. 

Although this was a lot of guards. Pressing a finger to her temple, she willed them back, and they tumbled down, stunned. That was all the quarter she needed. Summoning her mana, she began her onslaught. A crossbow bolt flew by her, then another, then the tell-tale crackle of Merrill and Anders’ magic. And through the mayhem she could always feel Fenris’ presence, always kept herself at his back. They had always been a good team, her magic and his strength, and now they seemed nearly unstoppable.

A magister stumbled out from the hull, robes akimbo but staff very much in force. Hawke staggered as a bolt of electricity hit her, and barely managed to freeze him into place with a well-timed spell. Fortunately, his icy corpse blocked the stairwell almost entirely, trapping the slave that had accompanied him. Unfortunately, he had frozen in such a way that his open robes exposed...everything. Hastily, Hawke ran to the doorway and locked eyes with the slave, an elven woman with purple hair and a hard expression.

“Fight with me, and I will free you,” she yelled, before a clatter behind her alerted her to an unwelcome presence. Turning, she let off three short bursts of magic, and the abomination that some magister had summoned crumpled into ash. Only then did she twist back. “Let’s lose the collar, first off.” 

A quick hand sign and it was done, and the woman’s distrustful eyes widened as she raised her hand to her neck. 

“Told you,” Hawke called, before scanning the field for Fenris. Merrill had joined them on this ship, encasing the magister responsible for the abominations in lava-like rock, but Fenris was surrounded by demons. Aiming carefully against the sun, she sent a fireball dashing across the deck to clear his area, before the magister melted and crumbled and she had her own set of problems. She thought she heard the elf-woman mumble “fuck it”, then she was at her back, a pair of daggers flashing in the sunlight as she turned on the guards that surrounded them both. 

The battle seemed to go forever. Hawke took a moment to breathe and use a healing spell on herself, and saw corpses everywhere, harshly lit in the rising sun, before another magister sent a bolt of energy toward her and she had to respond. Anders’ healing magic finished the job as she locked magic with the man. Fenris was still fighting, the red she had given him like a open wound on his wrist as he swung his sword and cleaved through three separate guards. And then she saw him, across the deck - the familiar grey hair and scruffy beard, the elegant robes still hardly disheveled despite the early hour. 

“Fenris!” She screamed, and he turned to see Danarius bearing down on him, eyes brilliant with anger. Wrenching her staff around, she sent a wordless curse toward him, and saw the mage stumble at the impact. The moment of inattention cost her, though, as a slave dagger pierced through her shoulder. The man was too close, so she took the spear-tip of her staff and drove it through his heart, not without a moment of regret.  _ You did not choose this life, or this death. I am sorry. _

Blood was coursing down her side, but she could still lift her staff, and lift it she did, sending bolt after bolt of magic at Danarius. He had a magical shield up, she could tell, and each hit of hers weakened it. Merrill glanced over at her and, realizing the same thing, also focused her attacks on the mage. And Fenris -

Fenris was like a man possessed, glowing blue with lyrium as he moved faster than Hawke could have dreamed. His sword, almost larger than he was, seemed to be everywhere at once.

And still Danarius advanced. Hawke diverted her attention to a handful of abominations that a quiveringly plump magister had summoned, and by the time she could return to attacking Danarius, he had pushed Fenris almost to the railing. Gritting her teeth, Hawke redoubled her efforts.

Finally, with a faint cracking sound, his shield fell, and Fenris took his opportunity. With a yell, he flared his lyrium markings, blue against the golden light of the sun, and Danarius stumbled back. Encouraged, Hawke sent another bolt of fire arcing towards the mage, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. 

It was too much of a distraction. There was an impact to her back, and the breath was forced from her lungs in an agonized, involuntary gasp. Distantly, she heard Merrill scream, and felt the magic crackle behind her as it collided with the assassin who had stabbed her, but she was already tipping forward, pain crashing over her. Hitting the deck hard, she managed to lift her head just long enough to see Fenris reach out and drive his hand through Danarius’ chest, lifting him up with the force of the blow. For one brilliant moment, they were silhouetted together against the rising sun.

Hawke had to drop her head. She was losing too much blood, she knew that. Her back was warm and wet, the wetness spreading slowly down her sides and pooling under her. Clumsily, she fumbled for a health potion at her belt, but her hands refused to work. When her vision started to go black around the edges, she fought it, but it was no use. 

_ At least he got his revenge, _ she thought, before her mind dissolved into a grey haze and then into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end now... thank you so much for reading this! It's so encouraging to read your comments as I wrap up my first long fic.


	16. XVI.

There was blood everywhere. It coated his hand, his chest, clumped stickily in his hair. He was not sure where his sword had gone. All he knew was that his left hand was imbedded firmly in his old master’s chest, and his right fist could not stop hitting him, punching that wrinkled, sallow face even as it crumpled under his repeated blows. He would not stop until the corpse he held looked nothing like -

“Fenris!” Merrill’s panicked scream cut through his trance at last. Staying his fist, he turned to look at her. 

And saw the broken body she was holding. 

Danarius’ corpse dropped from his hands blindly as thoughts screamed through his head.  _ She was so concerned with protecting you - you wanted revenge - Maker, Old Gods, whoever is listening there is so much blood - you could not save her - this is your fault - this is your fault - this is your fault - _

He was running, sliding on pools of blood, shoving Merrill aside to cradle her head in his arms. There was a wound in her shoulder, but the ones in her back were worse, deep and ugly and soaking her robes and his clothing with blood in equal measure. She was torturously still.

“Hawke.” His voice came out rough and surprisingly quiet. “Hawke.” Clumsily, he tried to shake her shoulder. “You made me promise to make it back. You have to as well.” There was something in his throat, something in his eyes, and his words came out low and choked. “You have to.” 

“Fenris!” A hand was laid on his shoulder. Anders’ hand. Roughly, he shook it off, and the mage grabbed him roughly, moving him almost too easily. Raising a hand, Fenris made as if to strike the other man, but Merrill’s slender fingers grabbed him before he could.

“Fenris, he still might be able to heal her.”

The words permeated the grief that threatened to overwhelm him, and hastily he moved Hawke’s light frame into Anders’ lap as the mage bit off the stopper of a mana potion and drank it in one go before laying a hand coated in blue-white light on Hawke’s wounds. 

Guilt welled up in Fenris at the sight of her still body, cocooned in magic. He had been so focused on his revenge that he had not protected her, the one thing he had sworn he would always do. Danarius was dead - and that absence weighed at him too, a weird, discomforting space in his heart - and he had been too blinded by his revenge to let go. All his life he had been a protector, and she was the first thing he had found worth protecting. If he had cared less about being the one to kill his old master, if he had been truly free, maybe -

Her hand twitched against his.

For a moment, the world stopped, silent except for the ringing in his ears. Then he was desperately clinging to her fingers, head bent over her too-still body. He felt frozen in space, head spinning with fear and the acrid smell of blood and sunlight.

Anders was turning grey, his hand shaking on Hawke’s chest. Gritting his teeth, Fenris allowed his markings to come to life, burning against his skin. The man laid a hand on his shoulder, and Fenris shuddered as the living lyrium arced from his back, through Anders’ body, and into Hawke. The contact lasted for only a moment before Anders convulsed and collapsed backwards, nearly knocking over Merrill. 

Fenris shook his head, ridding himself of the feeling, before bending gently over Hawke. Her breathing was light against his cheek, but even, and her bleeding had stopped. With a sigh of relief, he sat back on his heels, not letting go of her hand.

“So, did we win?” Merrill asked brightly, untangling herself from Anders with an affectionate pat to the cheek. 

“Get off me,” he mumbled, but there was no teeth in his words. Isabela’s men were spreading out, searching the ship. A few of them were uncomfortably removing shackles from the slaves who had surrendered. 

“We need to leave,” Isabela ordered, crossing onto the ship herself. “I see Aveline’s men down there, and they may be loyal but they aren’t mute. This is the last place the Champion needs to be.”

Fenris could not argue with that. Protectively, he lifted Hawke gently into his arms and, without a word to anyone else, carried her back onto Isabela’s ship. The railings were splintered and entwined, creating a surprisingly stable connection between the ships. 

She was so impossibly fragile. In battle she wielded such power - and the guilt returned, remembering how she had fought for him so many times - that it was easy to forget that she was simply human, fragile and flawed and perfect. In the darkest of times, when he had all but given up hope that she would ever care for him again, it had been easy to turn her into an ideal, a symbol of what true freedom would mean for him and how impossible it was to obtain. The shining Champion of his lonely mansion nights paled in comparison to the physical, slender body he carried now.

Even as the ship got underway, skipping into the morning sunlight and away from the carnage, he continued to hold her, cradled in his arms. The red silk she had tied around his wrist was bloodsoaked now, and absently, he fiddled with the knot. She had been so concerned with making sure that he came back, and all he had been concerned with was revenge on a man who had not hurt him in ten years. How was that freedom? 

If -  _ no, when _ \- she woke, he would be wholly hers. Nothing would keep him from her side, not her place in Hightown or her responsibilities as Champion, or his lingering fears and loss. Gently, carefully, he entwined his fingers, still bloodstained, with hers.

Her eyes opened slowly at his touch, and immediately squinted shut against the sun. “Good morning, Fenris,” she mumbled, weakly turning her head towards his body. 

He chuckled, even as he felt a traitorous wetness in his eyes. “I am yours,” he told her, pulling her tight. 

“I love you too,” she mumbled into his neck, arms wrapping around his waist, “but you are absolutely disgusting right now.”

That prompted another laugh as they both surveyed each other, covered in blood and, in Fenris’ case, indeterminate internal organs. Hawke raised a hand and brushed his matted hair out of his face. 

“So maybe we can save the I’m-glad-you-didn’t-die sex for after a bath? A significant one?” She teased, her eyes alight with a joy that Fenris could still not believe he was the cause of. 

“As you wish,” he teased back, ignoring Merrill’s nervous yelp as she quickly turned away from their conversation.

Hawke dropped her hand from his face to his shoulder, looking seriously up at him with golden-brown eyes that still enchanted him. “I thought I was dead that time. Again.”

Fenris’ throat closed for a moment, Wordlessly, he buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her, cinnamon and ash and blood, clenching his eyes shut against the fear of losing her. After a moment, her arms tightened around his waist. This was how he had wanted to hold her for so long - after the Arishok had impaled her, after every fight where she had taken a hit rushing in foolishly, after her mother had died. He raised a hand and caressed the back of her head, and felt her relax into him. 

“I do not deserve this,” he mumbled in a moment of agonizing honesty, and she lifted her head and looked at him, golden eyes mirroring the sun.

“My dad used to say that nobody does,” she told him, raising a hand and gently brushing the hair from his face. “Not real love.” She paused, took a breath. “He would say that being able to love anyway was the best part of being alive.” 

Fenris thought about that. He knew Hawke wasn’t perfect - there was no question in his mind about that. She was irascible and reckless and made the worst puns of anyone he had ever met. And yet he still loved her. Perhaps that was enough.

“He’d usually say that after several drinks, mind,” Hawke quipped, and he laughed. 

“I will reconsider it over a bottle of wine.” 

They stayed entwined, watching, as the sun rose and the ship sailed into the horizon.


	17. Chapter 17

Hawke had never held with marriage, or handfasting, or any of its associated activities, and it followed that hers was a hasty affair. It was clear that the city was about to explode any day, from one thing or another, and Hawke had asked it of Fenris primarily to be sure that Orana would be safe if something happened to her. Obviously, she had not told him that, preferring to keep such dark thoughts from him.

He had been surprised, though. Her heart warmed as she remembered the widening of his eyes, how his ears had raised slowly as he looked up from the book he was reading.

“I did not strike you for the marrying type,” he had said, closing it softly.

“I’m not.” Hawke had tried to hide her burgeoning nerves. “But perhaps it’s time someone made an honest woman of me.”

Fenris had chuckled, risen to his feet, and kissed her warmly before giving his answer. And now she was waiting in Isabela’s Hanged Man room, dressed in a simple lilac shift and white overdress with purple detailing that was only slightly magical. Memories of her mother’s death had given her an aversion to pure white, as well as veils, but Merrill had found her some sweet-smelling white flowers to weave into a circlet. She had finally decided to grow out her hair, and it was beginning to form a dark cloud around her head. A small vanity.

Isabela peeked in, also dressed in purple and looking almost nervous. “How are you doing, beautiful? Need a drink or five to get through this?”

Hawke laughed sunnily. “Hardly, but I think you might.”

Isabela chuckled. “I’ve never been a maid of honor before. I’ve never been an anything of honor, for that matter.”

Stepping forward, Hawke took the other woman’s arm. “First time for everything.”

The ceremony was to be held in the main room of the Hanged Man, reserved and specially cleaned for the occasion. Hawke felt a pang of sorrow for her mother and Bethany, although she knew neither would understand why she had to get married in a beer-stained Lowtown tavern. She had sent an invitation to Carver, but she doubted that he would come. Her band of misfit friends were more a family to her now, but she couldn’t help but miss her siblings and mother. And her father, his dark hair so like her own, smiling in her memory. She hoped that he would have approved of the woman she had become.

A single lute took up a passable tune as they entered the common room, transformed for the event with streamers and carpeting. Her friends were there - Aveline and Donnic, arm in arm and beaming, Orana with tears in her eyes, Bodahn and Sandal clapping. Varric, at the end of the carpet, a grin splitting his broad face. Merrill, charming flowers to fall delicately from the ceiling. Anders, a surprise after their fight a week ago, dressed in black and with a sad smile on his face. A few surprising faces from her adventures - apparently, Varric had been liberal with his invitations. She could not fault him.

And Carver was there, a mug of beer in one hand and mercifully not in his templar armor. He toasted her as she passed, and she smiled at him before raising her eyes to the figure she had been avoiding looking at.

Fenris was dressed in black, as usual, but in a sharply cut suit that fit him better than anything he would have picked out on his own. A silver belt with a decorative rapier encircled his slender waist. Hawke elbowed Isabela and was rewarded with a wink. He looked stiff and nervous, but extraordinarily handsome. It was enough to drive all thoughts of impending civil war out of Hawke’s head entirely.

At that moment, he raised his head and looked at her, and his face softened as he took her in. Blushing, Hawke let go of Isabela’s arm and took her place across from him. Between them, Varric smiled up and began to read.

Of course, he had insisted on writing a speech, but it was blessedly short. Fenris and Hawke had spent an evening and several bottles of wine crafting their vows, and it was so easy to take his hand, look into his deep green eyes, and say them.

_In this life and what comes after, I will walk by your side._

_I will take your cause to be my own, and you will never fight alone._

_When you are weak, I will be strong._

_I will be gentle when the world is hard._

_I am the one you choose, and you are the one I choose._

_I am yours._

 

They had talked a lot about whether or not to kiss. Fenris was shy about public affection, and Hawke had wanted him to feel comfortable. Fenris, on the other hand, clearly felt that some other gesture would be inadequate, and was adamant that he would not start their marriage that way. So when they had said the words, and Varric had wrapped their hands - in red fabric, because what else - he reached for her.

Their kiss was familiar, tender despite the nerves, and only partly interrupted by Isabela’s gleeful whoop when their lips touched. When they parted and Hawke opened her eyes, Fenris was smiling down at her, a lighter smile than she had ever seen on his face. She did not need words to understand the importance of this moment to him, to both of them. You build a life.

When she looked back at the guests, Anders was gone, but she did not think anything of it. Fenris’ hand gripped hers, and he whispered into her ear, “You look beautiful.”

Hawke blushed. “Come meet our guests, O husband mine.”

He chuckled and led her from the platform and into Merrill’s waiting hug. The remainder of the night was spent in dancing, drinking, and tale-telling. A few of the people she knew less well were almost star-struck by her presence, but the ale flew freely enough to resolve any awkwardness. When they finally made it back to her mansion in Hightown, Hawke fell asleep, tangled in Fenris’ arms, convinced that she could not be happier.  

The next day, the Chantry burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then my hand slipped and I accidentally wrote the most self-indulgent of fluff. Thank you to everyone who read! If you enjoyed it please send prompts to me/talk to me at ladyluthien.tumblr.com (that would honestly make my day) - I'm playing through Inquisition right now so my next project is likely to be CassandraxF!Inquisitor, if that's anyone's pairing of choice. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading my work, and especially for the comments and kudos. It's been a truly amazing experience to share my writing with the world and get a positive response, and it really does mean the world <3


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